


Kintsugi

by ShadowOfHapiness



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Eating Disorders, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Therapist Margaery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2019-10-21 17:23:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowOfHapiness/pseuds/ShadowOfHapiness
Summary: Margaery could safely say that she’d seen all kinds of broken people, as a therapist it was merely part of the job, she was just there to fix them up, maybe give them some kind of moral support, an encouraging smile or a hug, and then send them on their way. In essence: be compassionate, and always keep a safe distance.Yet when Eddard Stark brings her in a quiet and closed off patient, something in her aches, wants to truly understand and reach out to the fragile thing seated in front of her. It's something that goes far beyond the relationship she knows should exist between them, and yet she can't quite find it in herself to keep away.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Kintsugi (金継ぎ, "golden joinery"), also known as Kintsukuroi (金繕い, "golden repair"), is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum. As a philosophy, it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.

Margaery truly believes she can safely say that, at this point in her career, she’s seen it all.

Seven years as an accomplished therapist have brought a plethora of broken and damaged souls seeking some form of salvation to the her humble office, people she’s had to patiently listen to, observe the minute details of their faces shifting in a flash, notice the trembling of their hands or how their eyes would shift away from her unwavering gaze when unburdening themselves to her felt too overwhelming, learn when to sit beside them and gently give them a tentative touch when needed to and when to keep her distance, when to sit at the desk and when to opt for the little sofa by the large double windows, truly _see_ what lays beyond the broken person they are to their friends and family who _just didn’t get it_ and understand where and how the cracks had formed, where the deepest roots of their pain and trauma lay, see those people in their most raw and vulnerable state so as to aid them in working out the damage and rebuilding themselves towards a more fulfilling version of themselves, but this time with better foundations, a helpful hand and constant support along the way they could reach out for if need be.

Its long hours of constant dedication, emotional availability, research, late emails exchanged with Doctor Samwell Tarly who lives at the other side of the country, it’s heading out as the dew settles on the leaves of the rose bush in her garden every morning and the old Renault 6 TL letting her know each time that it is on its last legs, it’s sharing a coffee and a donut with Brienne as she checks in in the morning –sometimes even asks about how things are going with Jamie, and the flustered look on her colleague’s face never ceases to amuse her _(it has gone from we’re still trying to figure it out to we’re getting there and, more recently, we are very well, thank you very much)_. They’ve been together for nearly a year now, yet she’s still surprised to learn that Brienne hasn’t fully adjusted to life with a partner. She’s met him a few times, Jamie, he too comes in for therapy sessions since the loss of his hand (unfortunate mechanical accident, apparently, Margaery remembers wincing in sympathy when he’d felt well enough in himself to show her his actual stump the first time), still finds it difficult to eat as she’d seen for herself when Brienne had invited her to share a table with them at the therapy center’s canteen, but she says they’re getting there. Slowly, at his own pace, but steadily they’re getting there.

Those few breaks where she gets to talk with Brienne and Jamie (there are others, but Brienne and Jamie are the two people she likes the most), are moments she has quite possibly learnt to treasure as the most invaluable. Her job as a therapist is, all around a lot of hard work –both on her side and on that of her, at times, emotionally exhausted patients- but Margaery wouldn’t give it up for the world. She knows she can oft times come across as asking a lot of them, but ultimately, it’s for their own wellbeing- but she takes a certain pride in, more often than not, shaking their hand three weeks or several months later (it all depends on how quickly they recover, and she always makes sure to tell them to go at their own pace, and if that means the process takes time, well that’s okay) when their last session rolls around and truly wishing them well, confident that they are once again ready to tackle life, it’s hardships and all its unforeseeable impediments as they come, and she ticks off another successful case on her long list of accomplishments. The hugs and tears she gets from those _truly special_ patients, Margaery thinks no words can ever truly encapsulate how much that means to her.

However, _that_ is when the therapy works and proves to be successful on all accounts. For she knows she probably doesn’t _drastically_ alter the really timid ones, who barely dare to come out of their shell in her presence to the point where Margaery considers it a feat if she can get an easy-going full conversation up and running by the time they leave her, nor does she truly humble some with far too much ego, entirely reshaping people into what their broader society asks of them is not what she’s here for, really, nor does she think that the young man covered in bruises and ashamed of having to mention he’d let himself be hit by his partner she let go last week has come to terms with the fact that _it wasn’t his fault, it was all his partner’s, she shouldn’t have hit him under any circumstances,_ _she was wrong_ but she can only hope that he’s in a better place now and will, perhaps one day, understand that he is _not,_ under any circumstances, to blame for what was done to him. All in all, perhaps not every one of her cases may be a hundred percent successful, but Margaery is more of a mind that, as long as those patients feel more confident in themselves and in a better place, mentally speaking, than when they first pass the threshold of her modest consulting room, then she may consider the work she does with them as an accomplishment.

Which is why, after shaking Ser Mormont’s hand, wishing him a pleasant end of the week and letting him know she’s eagerly awaiting all of the details of his Saturday afternoon with his niece Lyanna next time they’ve arranged to meet, and turning back to the list of scheduled appointments for the day, patting down the stray strand of hair she can feel is out of place over her left ear (perfect presentation and professionalism is everything in her line of work, one always has to look perfect), she is, in all honestly, more than a little surprised to see the name _“Stark”_ written down in elegant black ink –she really would have to commend Brienne sometime, for she truly is a one of a kind secretary (and in all honesty, she means _far_ more than her assigned job to Margaery), and has, by far, the most refined writing she’s come across in a long time. It far surpasses her own _completely unreadable scribble_ (according to her mother, who always has to squint and repeatedly complains that it might even end up ruining her eyesight for good. Margaery still isn’t sure whether she actually _had_ meant it when she’d said it, that time she’d gone over to her house for the Christmas holidays, or if she’d merely said so for dramatics, gods knew her mother loved to seize _any_ chance for theatrics), at any rate- at the bottom of the sheet.

 _Stark_ is all there is to see really, asides from the time slot he must have picked when initially phoning Brienne (3:15, so she has another few minutes to spare, it would seem). Margaery looks at the name again, frowns, tilts her head in what she is sure is the equivalent of the puzzled puppy look.

She knows Stark. Well, _knows_ is perhaps a little too strong a word, Margaery thinks after a moment. _‘Knows of’_ might be far better suited, for she cannot in all honesty say that they are close friends or anything of the sort, but the Stark name is for sure known throughout the entire town, if not the region. Eddard Stark owns the local family-run bakery downtown, just opposite Tarly’s old and dusty library, the one with the two front letters bound to fall off any day now (Brienne has placed bets on it not lasting more than a few weeks at best, whereas Missandei, slightly more optimistic, is generously giving it a month and a half. Margaery can’t be sure. She’s seen the antique, but honestly has slightly more important matters to attend to than reflecting on the _‘what ifs’_ and _‘maybes’_ of it coming apart), it’s a family inheritance, or so she’s heard, the men have all been bakers or pâtissiers for generations now.

She’s been to Stark’s bakery a few times, hops in occasionally on the way back from an excruciatingly long day at work just to pick up something to nibble on on the way home and occasionally brings back a vanilla éclair for her mother when she spends the weekend at her place. It certainly isn’t the most luxurious place in town, nor has it ever tried to be, but in spite of the howling wolf painted on the side of the window (why was it there? That is indeed a good question, Margaery has never really managed to figure it out, nor has she really asked, but it is something she occasionally finds herself wondering about) it never fails to have a welcoming atmosphere for everybody, no matter the hour they decide to drop by. Robb Stark, the eldest son of the family, will sometimes even let her pick from the last batch of golden bread freshly out of the oven, saying she may as well make the most of it while it’s hot, he’s nice like that. And if Catelyn isn’t looking, she sometimes even tears off the heel and discreetly gives it to Nymeria, the huge family dog usually found lounging in the corner in her basket, who, of course, never says no to a morsel and makes sure to lap up every crumb in sight to hide any evidence of the crime. If Catelyn ever notices, she never says anything.

As she looks at the name, eyes following the fluid motion of Brienne’s hand tracing Eddard’s _“d”,_ Margaery wonders what could possibly bring one of the _Starks_ –of all people- to her cabinet. Far be it for her to assume they never have any personal problems, but while she may not know them intimately, from what she’s both seen and heard of them, they all seem to be rather down to Earth (perhaps even too much so if she is to believe the gossiping that goes around during coffee breaks about Arya, the younger daughter, and, apparently, a real tomboy troublemaker at heart), and she’s long ago pinned them as a close-nit family that would rather work through an issue together than seek out a professional psychiatrist for help. Not that Margaery minds them coming to her for help, that _is_ what she’s here for, after all, and she’ll do what she can. It’s merely… A rather unexpected turn of events.

She’s just about done reading through the rest of the page, once again thanking her stars for Brienne’s neat handwriting, when a faint knock on her door has her look up, said secretary’s face peering in through the partially open door. Margaery watches, not without a hint of amusement, as the blonde huffs in annoyance as, probably not for the first time that day, she has to tuck back a rebellious strand of blonde hair behind her ear, before reverting back to her usual calm and poised persona –a real professional, Margaery truly thinks she could not for the world have a better colleague. She’s told Brienne repeatedly she doesn’t expect her to be prim and proper around the clock, she can afford to slip up from time to time (Margaery is a therapist, she knows more than most how their society’s incessant will to make machines out of humans is pure fantasy, finds it most regrettable that Brienne is forever trying to conform to the standard) that she’s _human_ and therefore allowed to be imperfect, the other lady always insists, to the point where it’s almost become some kind of routine for them.

“Stark, here to see you, Miss.” She says eventually, a nice shade of pink beginning to colour her cheeks, and probably to avoid Margaery pointing it out and flustering her further, she turns back to the hallway pretexting a file that needs to urgently be looked at and gestures for her next client to come in on her way out.

It’s only then that Margaery turns back to her desk and notices the clutter; paperwork here, a blue pen there, the discarded cap of a red one by her computer, the previous file still open and the phone hidden under a stack of no doubt important folders. Well that simply won’t do, will it? She has about thirty seconds to get rid of the mess, and, knowing nothing she does now sill alleviate the Rob Duhon look, she merely pushes the clutter to one side of the desk in a swipe, vowing that she’ll look at it all later, as Brienne lets Eddard Stark in.

Stark, as it happens, is far greater up close than when she merely catches a glimpse of him in the back of his bakery, muscles taut and wiping a sweaty brow as he works in front of the sweltering heat of the oven, when she’s there buying pastries from his son. But his posture is easy-going enough, if perhaps a little tense, as he introduces himself and offers her a calloused hand to shake –he almost looks out of place in his white shirt, so unlike the stained once-upon-a-time-white apron she usually sees tied around his waist, one strap hanging loosely on his shoulder not yet having had the time to be fixed.

“Mister Stark, a pleasure to meet you.” She says, the usual greeting a habitus that rolls almost automatically off her lips. It is only after they exchange formalities, and that the man takes a step in and looks behind him, making a motion with his hand, that Margaery notices that they are, in fact, not alone, and that hovering behind him is a girl –probably a few years younger than her-, long red hair cascading down one shoulder. She doesn’t mean to stare, but she finds herself doing so anyway, because she finds herself absolutely transfixed by ice blue eyes, and a face that could have been sculpted by Bernini himself if it isn’t perhaps or the massive circles under her eyes and her hollow cheeks.

Margaery doesn’t have to look further beyond the collarbones peeking out from under her flowered shirt to assess what the problem is. She had doubted that Stark had booked an appointment for himself, even more so when appraising him merely moments beforehand, _he seemed fine to her_. Looking at his daughter however is another story –because that is who it had to be, right?- and the issue it is more than evident.

Margaery realizes only too late that she hasn’t managed to hold in her taut – _pained_ \- smile, and she really hopes it does not come across as pitying, she knows pity tends to be among the most un-useful of all things, despite the underlying sympathy she’s trying to convey. Victims and trauma survivors do not look for pity, hate it because it is merely a manifestation of others seeing beyond what they put out there, what they _want_ others to see, it is them being unable to hide the deepest core of their trauma. It is a violation of intimacy, and Margaery is pretty sure both she and the Stark girl are well aware of her infraction as soon as their eyes meet.  

She can’t help it. Looking beyond the mask, peeling back the pretty picture and taking a look at the ugliness beneath is part of her job, it’s why people come to see her (at varying degrees of willingness), it’s just that she can feel this patient is somewhat different. Margaery prides herself with being capable of retaining a professional distance towards those in her care, yet the icy glare the young woman across the table gives her cuts her deeper than she’d expected, feels like the thorn of a delicate rose scraped along her insides painfully slowly.

Instead of letting the Stark’s gaze affect her so, she instead draws herself back to the case at hand and, scrambling for a few seconds in which she can form a coherent sentence, reads through the first page of the dossier again, despite having done so merely minutes before.

_Sansa Stark._

_University student, UCL London. European Social and Political Studies._

_Part time job at Lannister INC: model._

_24._

_41kg._

She’s seen a plethora of cases, yet ones like these never fail to twist her gut.

Stark’s daughter is far from the first patient she’s had afflicted by this, yet Margaery knows it’s particularly hard because such an ailment delves into far more complexity than a few therapy sessions, off handed meaningful conversations and eating more consistent meals. And judging by Stark’s daughter –her name is _Sansa,_ she remembers how the letters sounded on Catelyn’s tongue when asking her to keep Nymeria away once, when the giant dog persistently curled around an old lady’s feet, hoping perhaps for a piece of the chocolate éclair she’d just bought, Margaery had only caught a glimpse of long auburn hair- she does not look happy to be here in the slightest.

Margaery understands, knows how this must feel for her to be trapped in a small room, caught between her father’s -although well meaning- still imposing stature on one side of her and the wall on the other, the desk in front of her and the seat behind, knowing that a most unpleasant conversation is about to happen and she cannot do not a thing to prepare for it safe to hope the blows don’t land too hard on her already fragile person.

She shakes her hand, welcomes her with the warmest smile she can muster, doesn’t comment anything when Sansa Stark mutters something unintelligible and pointedly avoids looking at her by, firstly, hiding behind her long auburn hair, and then faking a sudden interest in pink flowers on the Klimt rendition she has hanging on the wall. Anything to avoid getting roped into the conversation, it would seem.

(Or perhaps she really _does_ like art, she thinks after a while, for she is looking at the piece with the upmost interest. Perhaps she can ask her if they ever get a conversation going between them and Sansa feels safe enough to unburden a little of herself to her, even if it’s just sharing her mundane interests. Margaery finds herself almost surprised that she _genuinely_ wishes to know what Sansa enjoys doing in life).

Eddard Stark, she notices, looks apologetic _(bless him),_ and Margaery immediately puts his fears to rest, that there is no need to feel embarrassed for anything, least of all being a little late, _“We’ve got all the time in the world,”_ she assures him, because she knows this is going to take _a while._

“I’m very glad you came”, she says instead so as to break the ice, looking at both of them, ease them into the conversation instead of directly tossing them into the intricacies of the job and the complicated jargon she usually uses with Missandei when they share a much-needed coffee at the end of the day and bring up the unusual patients they sometimes have. She knows she’ll have to be cautious so as to not lose them both in her explanations, Margaery loves her job, but sometimes knows she can get swept up in the array of terminologies she’s used to with people who have no clue, and she would rather not lose her patients mid-sentence because she didn’t stop and explain it all to them. Transparency and all that.

“We would have been here earlier, but the family Ford is getting a little old, not the best at this time of the year, you see…” And again, he looks apologetic.

Margaery notices then that the collar on his shirt isn’t white like she’d previously assessed, but is greyish, and if she looks closely (trying not to stare), there might even be a stitch or two where the first button lays beneath the collar. Ah, so it has obviously seen better days then, and judging by the rest of his suit, it likely isn’t new either. The Starks certainly aren’t on the same level as the lavish Lannisters or Targaryens, it would seem. Not that she is one to judge, Margaery is here merely to offer assistance and help, whether the client in need is the janitor for the local pub or the Queen of the Riverlands, she makes no discrimination: at the end of the day, a person in need of help is a person in need of help, regardless of their background, income or social status.

And Sansa is in need of help. Rather urgently too, by the looks of it.

She _is_ here though (whether she’s come of her own free will or had needed some rather insistent persuasion, Margaery didn’t know, but can hazard a good guess, judging by the constant look of worry etched onto Eddard Stark’s face, that he is the one who dragged her along), and it is a start, the first step. Granted, there would be many more to come, and not all of them would be as simple as merely stepping into the therapist’s office and taking a seat –actually, there might be setbacks and a few stumbles along the way, unfortunate, but inevitable- but it _is_ a start, at least they can try to go somewhere from here.

“Don’t worry about being late, we can all get held up sometimes”, speaking from experience, many a folder has caused her delays in her schedule more than once, Margaery isn’t going to hold that against them. “So, what are you here for? How can I help you?”

Margaery knows, of course, what they are here for: she’s read through the file and even if she hadn’t, one look at her client and it is painfully obvious, but this isn’t about her, Margaery, this is about _Sansa_ and her father coming to terms with the real issue at hand. They know (or at least, _he_ does, it either hasn’t seemed to have dawned on Sansa yet or she’s just playing the ostrich for now) that there _is_ a problem, but it’s one thing to know there’s a problem, it’s another thing entirely to be able to put a name on it and accept it as a reality.

Eddard glances at his daughter, but Sansa is obstinately looking away, still transfixed by the Klimt painting and doing just about everything she can to ignore what is going on- _denial then? Running away from the problem so as to not have to accept that there was one in the first place?-_ From the bristling of her father’s shoulders as, disappointed that his daughter will not speak as he turns back to her, to her client refusing to even glance their way, she can make out in under a minute that the problem runs beyond a few skipped meals over the past month or so with an unhealthy dose of too much running. It’s something that goes far deeper than that, and they will get to it, eventually, Margaery is confident.

Although the non-eating part certainly _is_ the main priority for now, of course.

She’d only caught a glance of her before, but as she lets Eddard find his words, Margaery studies her new client in more detail. Her hands are both on the table, linked together, fingers betraying the anxiety she does not wish to translate into words (and that’s fine, they can get to that later if need be) –it’s discreet, almost imperceptible, but the movement of a bony wrist catches Margaery’s eyes and she’s quick to catch on. She does not see beneath the shirt and jeans, does not have to look to know that there she will find jutting hipbones and knees, more of the pasty skin stretched taut over too preeminent ribs, a concave stomach and protuberant elbows. She’s seen it all before, helped other patients with the same problem in the past, yet this time she feels something stir deep down in her gut, a kind of empathy that she wishes Sansa Stark could brush with the tips of her fingers without her having to utter a single word. A kind of empathy she’s never really felt for anyone else.

“I think it’s pretty evident,” Eddard says at last, when Sansa still will not speak, the words stumbling out of his mouth. _Not one for small talk, is he? Direct and to the point._ “She… She’s not eating, and-and I, we… I don’t know what to do. We’re worried, we want to try and fix it. But… We’ve tried and it hasn’t worked, and I’m worried, Bran and Cat and Arya and Rickon and Robb and Jon and we’re all- _we just don’t know what to do.”_ His wavering voice betrays his state, a barely concealed anguish he exposes, giving a voice to the absent members of the family he has just named. He cares, they all do, it’s obvious (painfully so), Eddard Stark is not one to shy away from expressing his affection for his children, nor does he shy away from showing how vulnerable their afflictions pain him. Margaery has to admire that, how much of an open book he is, how he just _puts it out there,_ raw and honest.

Sansa remains passive through it all, an emotionless mask painted upon her features, but Margaery does take note of her biting her lip as her father mentions her siblings, the way they’ve all been feeling. _So she is not as immune to their worry as she tries to let on then._

“I understand, and again, I cannot commend you enough for coming. The first step is always the hardest, and you have taken it, that’s good.” She isn’t too sure whether it’s Sansa or Eddard she’s trying to reassure, but guesses that it can’t hurt if both of them feel like they’ve done the right thing today. _Positive reinforcement,_ she likes to call it. “We can build from here, try and find a path forward to help you get better.” She looks at Sansa as she finishes, the other girl’s face remains determinedly unreadable.

Eddard nods along, “That’s good, that’s very good,” He laughs –that nervous kind of laughter, where laughter is the only way you can think of dealing with the heavy burden on your shoulders- relieved, looks at his daughter once before his eyes find hers again, “What do you think the best course of action to be? Should we be buying pills? Or maybe increase the share of protein at the table? Make sure Sansa can eat more? Or is it carbohydrates? I’m never certain, I’ll read up on it, do what I can!” He’s eager, perhaps a little too much even, a light in his grey eyes at the prospect of finally dragging the family out of whatever dark hole this has caused for them, and Margaery almost feels sorry for cutting his enthusiasm short. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate his good will –god knows the family, and Sansa especially, is going to need it in the near future- it’s just that _it’s_ _not like that._ And so she tells him: perhaps a little bluntly, but honesty is one of the core values she works with, the hard truth is far better than the sweet comfort of a lie, it only hurts more in the end anyway.

“It’s not like that…” She says, trying to find the right words, _try and ease their understanding._

The rose on her desk sheds a petal, Eddard’s wide smile vanishes instantly, the worried crease in his brow returning tenfold.

“Oh…” Is all he can muster, as if her words had just punched him in the stomach, blown all the air out of him so to say.

“No, no, no, it’s good that you’re showing good will, a lot of what we are going to be going through will rely on mental strength and positivity,” She reassures him, lets him know that his optimism truly is appreciated and may play an integral part in his daughter’s recovery if he wishes it so, and then turns to Sansa, “But, I am not going to lie, recovery isn’t instantaneous. There is no magic solution by which you could go to bed tonight and wake up tomorrow… _Fixed,_ for lack of a better word, as if nothing had ever happened. It will take time.”

“Looks like Cersei Lannister is going to be absolutely _thrilled_ with all this unnecessary mess.” It’s the first time Sansa has spoken, and her voice dips with sarcasm, the underlying disdain for both the woman and her current situation absolutely tangible.

“I cannot let you go back there Sansa, you know it…” Eddard sighs, shoulder slumping and every line on his forehead visible, probably tired of having to yet again have the same argument he’s already had countless times before. Margaery says nothing, judges it imprudent to step into a topic she clearly has no knowledge of and has no place to insert her own opinions, and so leans back a little, draws herself out of the conversation.

Margaery has always prided herself in her ability to read people, it’s what she does, yet as easily as she’s pinpointed Sansa’s problem ( _eating disorders,_ you need to put a name on it to try and find a way to fix it) as soon as she’d stepped out from behind her father’s comforting shadow, she is now finding it incredibly hard to estimate what kind of person Sansa really is underneath all the sarcasm and looks. It doesn’t happen often, hasn’t happened to her in a long time, and yet instead of feeling some sort of frustration simmering beneath her skin, Margaery is actually eager to carefully take down those walls Sansa has enclosed herself behind –and by the looks of it, those are _sturdy_ walls to say the least- and get to the root of the problem, talk it out calmly, patiently, knowing, on the one hand, that it will be hard for Sansa, yet also knowing that she’ll be better off once she does come to terms with it. After all that, perhaps some rebuilding could be in order, picking up the scattered pieces, salvaging those worthwhile, even if they’re dinged, a little bent or rough around the edges, and make something similar out of them: it would still, ultimately, be _Sansa,_ just not _quite_ the same, yet not entirely foreign either.

She just has to get past the layers of damage first, and Sansa doesn’t look like she’s about to make it easy –not if the frown, the glare, the withdrawn posture and the skinny arms tightly wrapped around her torso are any indication- but that’s okay. Margaery has, after all, never been one known to back down from a challenge, and she doesn’t particularly intend to change that trend now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margaery's been dead for a while now, but screw that, I will go down with this ship.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rocky start and Claude Monet saves the day.

Stark doesn’t stay. Both because he has things to do and –doctor patient confidentiality obliges- it is not his place to impose upon them. Margaery hasn’t said anything since closing the door behind him and wishing him well, letting him know he was more than welcome to come back in an hour or so (hopefully they would be done by then), and suggests the coffee shop at the corner of the road, says it’s a cosy little place and there’s free Wi-Fi if he needs to catch up on any work. He thanks her, mentions a rather daunting order he needs to see to and organize, takes her up on her offer and says he’ll let her know how the coffee was when he comes back. Margaery sends him off with a smile, tries to show him a little optimism, that his daughter is in good hands, and that he can afford not to worry over her for the next while. Eddard Stark’s shoulders slump in relief, Margaery almost thinks she makes out a silent _‘thank you’_ pass his lips before he stops by Sansa, drops a kiss on her forehead and mumbles something Margaery can’t quite make out, but guesses isn’t for her ears to hear anyway. Then he is gone, and silence fills the room. When Margaery realizes that it’s likely a silence that intends to last, she merely goes back to her seat, leans back and in a fluid motion, brings back Sansa’s folder to her knees, fakes an interest in the content she’d read ten times prior to that.

She isn’t about to overwhelm the girl. Sansa being here is already a big step for her, Margaery sees no need in pushing things too quickly. If she wishes to speak, then she will, if not, she is perfectly content planning out how she considers handling this case.

It isn’t really that she really _needs_ the file anyways, the problem they have on their hands was more than obvious to the naked eye, even that of someone lacking the years of medical training she has under her belt. But the file is protocol, and Margaery regrets not having the full detail of it before welcoming the Stark girl in, she might have been better prepared for their first session together. She doesn’t wish to ruin it, for she knows how crucial it is for them to get off on the right footing, or else risk all the healing process she’s hoping they’ll get to eventually.

Ten minutes go by, then fifteen, twenty. After reading though the last paragraph three times, Margaery glances at the clock on her desk, before her eyes flicker back up to Sansa. She hasn’t moved an inch, apart perhaps from incessantly fidgeting her sleeve left with her fingers as a distraction. Nervous, then. It was to be expected. Eddard Stark probably thought he was doing the right thing by bringing his daughter here (and he was), but very likely hadn’t paused to think about what kind of repercussions doing so might have on her. Margaery couldn’t begrudge him though, she was the therapist, not him, Stark in all likelihood had no idea of the strain he was unknowingly putting on his daughter by _forcing_ his help on her when she did not see it that way. Perhaps that was a good place to start then, Margaery mused, not necessarily talk about the problems and issues that led her here, but commend her on actually showing up.

“I truly _did_ mean what I said back there, you know.”

She barely moves, just blinks as her eyes shift back to her. Not a word passes her lips, and Margaery can’t quite make sure if she’s taken her patient off guard, if Sansa is really good at faking it, or if she just really doesn’t care (Margaery would rather not think it’s the third option).

“You, coming here-“

“I don’t _want_ to be here.”

She isn’t looking at her, barely speaking to her since it feels like it’s more of a mumbled confession than an actual response to her previous statement, but Margaery will take it an improvement, at the very least, she’s gotten Sansa to talk to her, even if it’s just minimal.

“You could have left already, you haven’t.” She points out instead, because it’s true. Sansa _could_ leave any time, if she so wished, Margaery wouldn’t stop her. But she hasn’t, and she’s determined for there to be a reason as to why she’s staying.

It seems to catch her off guard, Sansa’s mouth snapping shut instantly, whatever retort she might have made dying on her tongue, and she looks around the room, panic blossoming in her eyes at being read so well, looking for an escape.

Margaery bites her lip and curses inwardly at having put her foot in her mouth, this _really_ isn’t the way she wishes for things to start off between them, and quickly needs to rectify the situation before it becomes unsalvageable. _Think, Margaery, think!_

Her eyes flicker to the small bookshelf she has in the corner –nothing but medical books filled to the brim with psychological jargon, nothing of any interest to them on the spot right now. Sansa is still wavering between panic and suspicion, probably disliking such a disruption to her undoubtedly planned-out daily life, trying to cover up her aversion to finding herself off balance, at the absence of any sense of control she might have over the two hours she was to spend here. Control is very likely one of the big reasons for her being here, it often is when it came to patients like Sansa –perhaps it isn’t always the main reason, given that everybody is a singular person in their own right- and withholding it in the form of not allowing them to share an equal conversation with her is just about as damaging to their psyche as having them skip dinner.

Perhaps, she thinks, she can give a little of it back to her, in a way she knows will not be harmful. She’s still looking around –a little frantically now, if she’s being honest, because this is becoming awkward for both of them- until her gaze unexpectedly catch little white dots on Sansa’s shirt. Except that they aren’t little white dots. Margaery squints, leans forward slightly and hopes that this isn’t coming off as her acting like a creep, and she can make out for herself that, those white dots are, in fact, flowers, water lilies to be exact. _Claude Monet_ water lilies, if she were to be exact.

And suddenly, she remembers the way Sansa had stared almost longingly at the Klimt painting hanging on her wall, behind the desk, how she’s trying to avoid looking at it now because doing so would mean her eyes would have to cross Margaery’s and she probably feels like she isn’t up for that.

“I like the flowers.” She says –or rather, _blurts out,_ without thinking any further as to how exactly she’s going to make a conversation out of this. But, well, it’s out now, and so Margaery guesses that she might as well roll with it. “Claude Monet, isn’t it?”

She swears her heart almost skips a beat when the tiniest of smiles graces her face (fleeting, gone almost as soon as it came, but it was there none the less, and Margaery has to admit that she rather likes the picture of Sansa smiling, would perhaps very much like to see a _genuine_ one someday), and then a silence, something suspending in the air between them as Sansa is left to decide whether she wishes to take the hand Margaery has extended out to her. Margaery doesn’t even realize she’s holding her breath, some invisible force pressing on her chest, constraining her in those tense few seconds of doubt, where _I’ve screwed up and thrown any progress out the window_ and _you’ll see, give her a moment and she’ll go on from here_ battle for dominance, neither one of them feeling like a definite winner.

“I… I like his water lily collection, I guess.” It’s a little evasive as answers go, but Margaery feels like she’ caught onto something, that they might be able to get something going from here. She doesn’t know much about Claude Monet, impressionism or his artwork, but ventures that if she can get Sansa invested in their conversation, perhaps even make her want to come back –even if it’s just for that and not actual therapy- then she can go home satisfied tonight. Besides, judging by the way her face seemed to light up just slightly, Margaery doubts anybody’s taken much time to talk about the painter with Sansa at all.

“Really? Why them? Why the lilies, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I-“ And here she pauses, almost seems to catch on to the game Margaery’s playing, but whether she does and is merely deciding to humour her or whether she’s entirely oblivious, Margaery will never know, as her patient goes on. “I don’t know, really. I guess it might have been when Aunt Lysa sent a postcard to us once, when she was on holidays in Giverny –it was the first time anybody in the family had been to France- and I just remember keeping the postcard, and going on from there.”

“Family, history then?”

She nodded, but with what she thought to be a little more liveliness than what Margaery had first seen when she’d stepped in the door. Nothing much to the eyes of a random stranger, but it was an improvement from her perspective. Yet she still refuses to fully answer, and so Margaery finds herself picking up the threads of the conversation again, hoping this isn’t about to be a one step forward-two steps back scenario.

“Did you ever fancy art school, by any chance? I know you’ve been modelling, which we can probably count as an art as of itself, but ever thought of going all out with painting or photography?”

Again, Sansa seems to have something hanging on the tip of her tongue, but as she sets her shoulders back, Margaery knows she can’t find the strength to push it out in the open, and instead, settles for yet another vague statement, “Not really, couldn’t afford it.”

Ah, another touchy subject it would seem, Margaery thinks tact has well and truly fled her today. “Well, there’s still the few galleries around, right?”

“I guess so, it’s just…” She stops herself, unsure, and not wishing to interrupt, she merely nods in approval, gives Sansa the all clear that she can go on without any fear of judgment –what is said here remains in the confines of this room, patient confidentiality obliges- thinks for a moment what progress they’ve made so far will come to a stop when her patient’s eyes flicker to the ground, clouded in guilt as she bites her lower lip (Margaery thinks she may find it endearing, and then swiftly berates herself for thinking as such) before she dares meet her eyes again, “It can get lonely sometimes, with nobody to talk to.”

Margaery feels frustration at barely scratching the surface, just knows there’s so much meaning underneath the cryptic words Sansa carefully chooses to tell her, wishes she’d feel safe enough to let go a little, but dares not cross any boundaries too soon out of fear it might bring what they’ve managed so far toppling down, and land Sansa in an even worse place than she already is. (It isn’t normal, to care like this, and Margaery has no idea why she does). However, it is quickly evident to her that her patient needs to learn to let go a little, free herself from whatever restraints Cersei Lannister has placed there over however long Sansa worked for her. For there are clearly traces of the conditioning she’s grown accustomed to that linger, subtle, not necessarily what one would notice first, but they’re there –the little flinch in her shoulders at the sound of her name, the way she worries her hands when she thinks Margaery isn’t looking, the not really looking her in the eye, the short and to the point answers, the utter silence when Margaery hopes for her to perhaps veer into a topic she enjoys on her own volition, the way she actually pushes away the chocolate on her desk –the one Margaery had gotten with a cup of coffee at the dispenser, probably one night she’d been working late, and forgotten to eat it, letting it be buried under mountains of files instead- as if physically pained by its mere presence.

_Ah yes,_ that. _They would have to get around to that sometime._

_But not yet._

She’s already gotten Sansa to talk and smile _(note to self, I’d like to see that again),_ she doesn’t wish to push her luck today, not during their first conversation, because that’s what these are: not therapy sessions, not an hour where Margaery goes on and on listing Sansa’s endless problems in a jargon she cannot ever hope to understand, not her telling her everything wrong with her, these are a little hour where they can just sit back and _talk_. Calmly, quietly, with no pressure. Admittedly, Margaery would certainly _like_ for them to get around to the whole Sansa-not-eating-anything eventually, but if it takes five weeks of Monet and an extra one on water lilies, then that’s what it takes. And she doesn’t really mind all that much.

Besides, she finds that she’s quite interested in Sansa, and not merely out of purely professional curiosity, Margaery genuinely wishes to know more about why she likes Monet, how she came to get the shirt (she likes it too), why Monet and not Van Gogh or Picasso, and, perhaps, if she’s lucky, more about Sansa herself and how things got this bad for her. She _wants_ to help in any way she can, feels drawn to the broken thing she has sitting across from her, would like to help putting it back together and mending the cracks –and even if it isn’t perfect in the end, it’ll still be pretty in it’s own right- but knows that forcing herself on her patient is quite possibly the _last_ thing she wants to do.

“So, what is it about Monet that you really like then?” Margaery leans back, a little more at ease now that she’s found something they don’t have to skirt around and prod with a ten foot pole, counts it as a victory when she sees Sansa’s smile widen a little. She really ought to do it more, her face seems to shine when she does.

“It’s calm, _peaceful_ , it’s always the same yet never quite a replica of his previous paintings, if you get what I mean… Did you know that he dug up his harden and diverted an entire river to plant lilies so he could paint them?”

“Really?” And she doesn’t even have to force her interest, invites Sansa to tell her more.

“Yes, I remember coming across it once, it really stuck to me. He actually completely rearranged his garden to suit his paintings, made the real landscape into his very own canvas, of sorts. And he way the colours kind of embody the different events that happened throughout his life, there’s just so much thought that goes into it, no wonder he gained so much success.”

She’s actually talking, and Margaery could not be happier. Perhaps they’re jot talking about the more glaring issue at hand, but they’re talking, getting to their bone of contention takes time, time she does not wish to rush, and instead, she finds herself listening intently as Sansa tells her about how Monet was so good at his work that he even managed to touch George Clémenceau, the Prime Minister of France, who was one of his most fervent supporters. _Can you imagine that, being encouraged by the Prime Minister to be an artist? That would be amazing._

“I can imagine, quite an amazing garden he must have had.” Margaery ventures, trying to picture the rivers, bridges, flowers and plants carefully arranged to suit the aesthetic of an artist’s eye.

“If ever I’m going to Paris, Giverny would definitely be a stop on the way. I think I’d just need to convince the others it’s worth the detour. Five hours in his gardens would be a dream come true.”

_Ah, so the family aren’t really the artistic type then…_ She’s gathered that from Eddard Stark all right: kind, generous, but a little rough and ready around the edges, far too practical to be swept up in the abstract appreciation of the arts (which is fine, Margaery knows not everybody is the arty type), but Margaery can feel that Sansa’s letting loose, appreciates being able to talk about something meaningful with someone she knows will listen –perhaps not understand, but at least give her time and patience, and perhaps a fruitful exchange- someone with whom she can talk and feel like she’s actually getting to something meaningful, that Margaery _gets_ what Monet, his art and his gardens all mean to her. Margaery doesn’t, not yet, but she hopes that, perhaps if they see each other again in the future, Sansa can teach her how to, of not craft herself an artist’s sensitivity, at least learn the ways of profoundly valuing the beauty of the man’s artwork.

The change is subtle, but as Sansa keeps going on about Giverny and Monet’s gardens, she notices that her patient is actually looking at her now, instead of the painting behind her desk, how knowing she’s in a safe environment, she actually lets lose a little and says more than the bare minimum, when they had nothing in common forty-five minutes ago. Granted, Margaery knows she’s far from having gotten to all of the cracks, and she won’t uncover them exhaustively today either, but she hopes she can keep the good work going and encourage Sansa to come again when they’ll be done. Both because she knows they are going to need to share a good number of conversations before getting down to the nitty gritty, and because she’d like to know more about her (whether it’s from a medical perspective of a personal investment, Margaery isn’t too sure she knows yet).

Margaery hopes telling her so won’t shatter what they’ve managed to build so far. She knows Sansa is smarter than she lets on, knows she’ll get the catch when she’ll offer her to come back, but if she can somehow get her patient to believe that she truly _does_ have nothing but her best interests at heart, then perhaps Margaery can see a slim chance that the other girl might accept to schedule another appointment, one she intends to use to talk a little more about why exactly she’s here and give her professional advice on.

“… I don’t know what my father would think of having a whole flowered archway into the garden, but I guess it would look nice in spring, if we were to put some thought into it and arrange the colours. That is, if he’d even entertain the thought, he’d probably –and rightfully so- worry about Nymeria knocking the entire thing over before any of the flowers even got a chance to bloom.”

Margaery enquires a little more into Nymeria, feels warmth blossoming in her chest as Sansa chuckles and goes on a tangent about her mother having as little ornaments in their garden as possible, their massive dog being rather clumsy and knocking over what little they already have in it. Painstakingly designing the entire backyard and carefully planting delicate flowers would be naught but a waste, for once they would bloom, they would barely sprout out of the ground and already the family pet would trample all over them. Margaery cannot attest to that, not really coming from a pet-owning family (perhaps they’d adopted a stray kitten once, who’d stayed for the milk and biscuits her mother would generously feed it, before one day disappearing entirely, never to be seen of again), her knowledge of their upkeep is rather limited.

“It worth it though, sometimes”, Sansa says, smile now gone as she once again looks down, eyes landing on a handwritten report by Brienne on the left side of her desk, “When it feels like nobody really understands what you’re trying to say. I know she doesn’t really get what I tell her, Monet, Cersei Lannister, or even just what a shitty day I’ve had, but sometimes, when I get back from running, it can be nice, to have someone to go to…”

Margaery has sensed the sudden shift in the tone of their conversation, knows they’re no longer really discussing Monet and the aesthetics of his paintings, and for a moment is unsure whether she wishes to risk pushing forward or not. She is well aware that Sansa is the one who has brought this up, but probably does not mean to go into the detail of it, yet she finds herself loathe to not seize this golden opportunity to break the ice, at least get that out of the way so they may have something to go on next time.

_No. You cannot afford to rush things, your patient’s current wellbeing_ must _come before potentially triggering them._

“Did you know that water lillies are often _–and strangely enough-_ associated with rebirth and spiritual enlightenment?” She says instead, unsure as to how she can continue their conversation on Monet, knowing too little about him to offer anything fruitful _(note to self number two, look up more information on Claude Monet and the impressionists),_ reluctant as she may be to do so given that this is all based on hearsay -and as a therapist, Margaery does not really buy into superstition and urban myths- but not ready to let go of the tiny piece of progress she can feel they’ve made, she falls back on  something more general, probably too blunt for someone sensitive, like Sansa, but something they can still talk about together.

“Really?”

“I learnt that a few years ago, when my mother fell very ill. We didn’t think she would make it, Loras told me I ought to come to terms with it, tried to be gentle about it all, but I just wasn’t ready to say goodbye. But my mother is nothing if not a stubborn woman, she kept saying she couldn’t miss my brother’s impeding wedding to his partner, Renly, and so she pulled through. I found out about the lilies when trying to find something meaningful to offer her, when wishing her a full recovery.”

Despite how things turned out for the better, Margaery is still pained by the memories of those dark days, when she’s drop by her mother’s house to feed the cats and the place was eerily silent- not even they dared to utter a sound- so unlike the home full of life she’d remember growing up in. Both of them would usually be waiting at the kitchen window, heads perking up as she’d open the press and reach for the bag of nuts before letting them in, mindful of the vase of roses on the windowsill. Her mother loved those roses, and so Margaery would always water them, take care of them when her mother couldn’t, hoping she’d make it home one day to look after them herself again. It had hit her, then, how things there would remain untouched, exactly the same, were her mother to pass, as if her fate did not matter in the grand scheme of things.

Margaery had hated going to her mother’s house for the rest of the time she was hospitalized. Luckily enough, she had made it out all right, certainly a little weakened on a physical front, but all in all still in one piece, sarcasm and witty remarks remaining untouched throughout the ordeal.

Perhaps, with a little luck, Sansa too, will make it out all right.

“We picked her out a bouquet, Loras and I, for the day she finally came out of the hospital. She’s been on the mend ever since, doing well if I may say so -stubbornness must run in the family- and always keeps a bouquet of lilies on the dining table.” She muses, a fond smile on her face.

Sana listens intently, tries to picture it all, Margaery’s old mother, living in a quaint little cottage, a bouquet of rosy flowers at the centre of her dining table, a reminder that, although they may not always be by her side, her children still love her, she can still have a piece of them from where she is. _Perhaps…_ Perhaps they might not be all that different in the end, when she really thinks about it. Granted, Margaery’s mother did not suffer the same affliction as her, but they’d both been ill –perhaps she still was- and if the old woman had somehow found a way to get back on her feet, then maybe she can too.

She is still on the fence about it. This _thing_ her father has sent her to be treated for, it’s been a part of her life for a long time now, ever since Cersei Lannister had made that comment about not fitting into the latest trend of dresses her company had been sent and told her she’d need to work on that if she was hoping to be kept on. Sansa doesn’t even know where it went so wrong, just that it started off with running more often, skipping a breakfast or two here or sleeping through dinner there, nothing she truly thinks was cause for alarm, until she guesses it must have spiralled out of control. Until she doesn’t see it as a problem but a mere habit. _Eat. Go out running. Skip dinner. Sleep. Breakfast? Can probably do without. Avoid biscuits..._ And repeat, an endless vicious cycle that has been swallowing her whole for far too long now.

This thing, however, hasn’t been mentioned by Margaery once, and while Sansa knows they’ll have to get there eventually, talking Claude Monet and water lilies is just so much safer that she allows herself to bury her head in the sand just a little longer. It’s the first time in a long while that she feels like she’s having a _meaningful_ conversation with someone, has an actual intent in talking, takes pleasure in conversing, knows she’ll probably be thinking about this well into tomorrow –perhaps even next week- and while she is in no way about to admit it to herself, Sansa does appreciate it, truly.

It’s just her luck that, as she’s about to admit that maybe this wasn’t quite as horrible as she’d expected it to be, feeling the urge to _tell her_ that perhaps she’d been wrong to be so closed off when first entering her cabinet, the words on the tip of her tongue, lips parting to actually express her gratitude at showing an interest in Monet and what it means for Sansa that she can hear a faint knock at the door, and whatever spell Margaery seemed to have enthralled her in shatters.

Margaery notices the shift instantly, how Sansa seems to straighten up in her chair, hands leaving the table to worry at the knee of her jeans, her eyes once again blinking to the side, back to the painting she has hanging on the wall, ow she bites her lip as Eddard Stark makes his way over, puts one warm hand on her shoulder as he greets her with his other, both of them greeting each other before she invites him to sit down in the second chair, to Sansa’s left.

He looks at them both, tries to assess what might have gone on between them so as to not say anything that might pass as insensitive, before he eventually gives up, lacking the ability to discern what lays beyond a first glance –always one to assume the best in people- and gives her a amiable smile.

“Thank you, for your time, I hope everything went well between you two.” He glances at Sansa as he finishes, a curve on his lips as he takes note of the face that she isn’t sulking and pointedly looking away from him like she had an hour ago. It’s perhaps not much, but it’s a tiny bit of progress, and Stark seems to take what he can get, no matter how small or how seemingly insignificant.

“It was my pleasure, for my part, I can assure you I had a most pleasant exchange with your daughter.” Sansa looks up at that, eyebrows raised, as if surprised that Margaery actually meant it when she’d said it just moments ago. _Ah, so trust isn’t quite there yet, it would take time to build, of course,_ but Margaery is confident they’ll manage to get somewhere yet.

“Should we be scheduling another appointment, then?” He looks between them for a moment before settling on her, as if searching for her professional advice as a lifeline he can cling on to.

“Well that is entirely up to Sansa,” She says, because it’s true. Margaery can only do so much –and is ready to offer her help if it is asked of her- she cannot (and _will_ not) force Sansa to come if she does not wish to, that would merely prove to be a waste of time on both their parts. “If I can add in my two cent however, I would very much like to see her again.”

She looks to her, then, and Sansa looks lost, eyes flickering from her face to her father’s, as if seeking either one of them to make the decision for her, the overwhelming weight of it all no doubt a heavy burden on her shoulders. Margaery would like to help her, but this decision is one Sansa must make alone, for a third party forcing their choice upon her would merely prove to be unfruitful in the long run, as Margaery unfortunately knows from experience.

“Well, what do you think, Sansa, should we come back?” How such a big man can muster such a gentle voice, Margaery truly doesn’t know, but she can see how, in those few moments, Stark sets aside his own worry over his daughter’s state to give her voice and her decision centre stage, regardless of whether or not he agrees with them. _Family really does mean everything to him_ , _it would seem._

Her invitation hangs in the air between them, and Margaery can almost feel Sansa tentatively touching it as she worries her bottom lip –at least she’s considering it- and wishes she could just giver her that little nudge forward, reassure her that although it may not seem that way right now, this _is_ the right path to take, but again, refrains herself, knows that this is entirely up to her. She knows eating disorders to be often born out control, or rather, lack thereof, and feels it important to let her client take the first tentative step is she so wishes. She and Eddard have done their part, it is now Sansa’s turn to make her own choice.

“I…” Eddard’s hand tightens around her shoulder, little rubbing motions up and down in a show of silent encouragement. _“I… Perhaps I should.”_ It’s small, whispered out in one breath as if something Sansa wishes to get over and done with –and now she has-, but it’s there, it’s _done_.

Eddard snuggles her under his shoulder, and Margaery swears she sees another one of those small smiles Sansa tries to hide, and now feels more determined than ever to try and bring out. It’s good, this, that they’re both willing to at least give it a try. It won’t be easy on either of them (or her, it seems to be slowly dawning on Margaery that she’s gotten quite attached over their first exchange, something she knows she ought to rectify as quickly as possible).

Unlike Eddard’s, Sansa’s hand is cold when she shakes it, to the point where Margaery almost flinches back as their hands make contact when she bids them goodbye and says that she looks forward to seeing her again. No sooner have their hands lost contact that Sansa once again huddles under her father’s shoulder, the familiar warmth and comfort probably well needed after an hour of bearing herself to a complete stranger. Nevertheless, Margaery wouldn’t do things any differently.

It’s as they pass the threshold of her office that Sansa pauses and turns back to her, an earnest look on her face.

“Thank you…” She says, a little more audible this time, and Margaery can feel that she really means it, “You know, for listening to my nonsense and all that. Maybe it… Just, _thank you,_ I guess.”

Margaery feels an uncanny warmth start to spread in her chest and a large smile break out on her face at the compliment. Why is this affecting her more so than when any other patient has said her similar praise? She honestly doesn’t know, but it is affecting her more so than usual, and she doesn’t quite understand why it isn’t bothering her as much as she knows it should.

“The pleasure is mine, I enjoyed it.” And I’m looking forward to talking again, she would like to add, but already they have turned away, walking down the corridor, her words washing over them, a sweet balm as they leave the safety of her office to face the unyielding hardships of the world outside.

She thinks about it for the rest of the day, and as she orders her files and later drives home that night, the ghost of Sansa’s cold touch a little piece of her patient she brings back to the intimate cosiness of her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you don't mind a nod to Claude Monet, because I couldn't help myself, I love him.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa struggles.

Sansa, for her part, doesn’t think much of it.  

Well that’s not entirely true. If she is to be exact, she thinks it’s all really a whole lot of nonsense. _As if Tyrell actually cared._

Instead, she quickly forgets about the appointment by trying doubly hard to compensate for what had been a break in her routine and gets up an hour earlier every morning, needing a to regain a semblance of control in her perfectly crafted timetable or she knows she’ll flounder. It’s barely five that Saturday morning, she makes sure everybody is still sleeping as she tiptoes down the stairs, laces up a pair of runners and heads out, well intent to come back after breakfast. She would push until one that afternoon, but she’s afraid she’ll needlessly worry both her parents, which isn’t something she wishes to put them through.

It’s routine at this point, really, it’s what she’s been doing for… Well however long ago it was that Cersei Lannister had encouraged her first to run. It hadn’t been easy art first, straining her muscles every morning, aching throughout the day, and constantly feeling like her lungs could never take in the air she needed, but with Cersei dangling the promise of future contracts in front of her (and future contracts meant more money, money that the family really needed), Sansa couldn’t afford to run the risk of turning the offer down, for when else would such an opportunity ever arise again? It took a while, a _long_ while, but Sansa enjoys it now, has learnt to not focus on the pain and rather, see it as an hour where she can let go of everything for an hour, not think about anything, and be free of any turmoil for a short while. And while it hadn’t seemed like much at the start, it quickly became quite addictive.

Sansa doesn’t see it as running away from her problems, it’s merely, setting them aside for a while, where she can empty herself of any debilitating thought and just… _Breathe_.

She’s careful to always head out early, before anyone at home can try and stop her. She always feels a little guilty when she carefully steps over Nymeria’s sleeping lump, tries to be quiet, knows she’s upsetting them all, but she just _can’t stop it_. Sansa remembers well what Cersei had to say when she had slacked off for two weeks _(It’s starting to show again Sansa, and we unfortunately just can’t have that, I’m afraid. You need to work it off, or I think I may need to find a more suitable candidate)_. She remembers the cold lump lodging in the bottom of her stomach, the queasy feeling and how her hands shook –she _needed_ this, the family needed this. _Damn it Sansa, work harder!-_ and remembers that day being the one she resolved to ditch the slice of toast in the morning. So what, she could do without it, and it turns out that she could.

At first, Cersei, numbers and the size 34 pants is all she can think of when she’s out. It’s the mantra she keeps running down in her head when her lungs feel like bursting and the meagre air she does manage to inhale is like fire burning her very core, that it’s all worth it for the extra cash. The family needs it, and if she has to put up with a little discomfort in order to get it, well then Sansa doesn’t see it as a choice she can merely discard. Both her parents work hard –too hard- for them all, and while they don’t say it out loud, she knows they are struggling (it’s why Father has that crinkle around his eyes when he smiles sadly as he encourages Arya to finish up the umpteenth bowl of carrot soup, promising they’ll soon be able to afford something better, it’s why Mother often spends hours locked away in the small study room to balance the check book, and Sansa has heard the pain she tries so hard to muffle in front of her children as she sometimes eavesdrops by the door), the least she can do is chip in and help.

She honestly doesn’t see it as a problem, at first. She’s thrilled when the first paycheque comes in, notices the look of utter relief on her parents face when they both realize they might just have a little extra to treat them on this month, and the teary hug her mother gives her as she thanks her, emotion dripping of her voice, makes it all worth it. It helps, and it very quickly becomes a self-destructive routine she’s far too engrossed in by the time anyone realizes there’s something wrong.

It’s hard, at first, refusing the box of chocolates Aunt Lysa brings over, or the piece of cake Robb sets aside for her after a long day with Cersei Lannister’s partner brands. She smiles, accepts the token of affection from her brother all the while panicking on the inside because you can’t, you can’t, remember what Cersei said, just think about what you’ll have to do to compensate. She eats it anyway, unable to disappoint Robb, who is just so proud at having mastered the art of sugar icing, and Sansa truly wishes she could appreciate, but she just can’t. The sugar tastes too sweet, makes her sick as it claws its way down her throat and guilt overcomes her as she’s forced to eat the whole damned thing. All she can think of is that she’ll have to wake up extra early tomorrow to make up for it, perhaps even forget about the meagre sandwich she usually packs for lunch, Cersei will definitely see something is off otherwise.

She sets her alarm for an ungodly hour the next morning, runners at the bottom of her bed and tracksuit carefully laid out on the chair by her desk. It’s the first time of (far) too many she does this, and it’s painful at first, but she gets used to it eventually.

Sansa looks down at the watch firmly strapped to her wrist. 6:35. Not bad, it quicker than yesterday at any rate, and through her panting, she manages a small smile. _This is good_ , she thinks, _I’m getting quicker_. She’s taking off again, fists closed and determination to beat her previous record on her way home, but only manages a couple of hundred meters before a searing burn erupts in her ankle and she finds herself toppling to the ground, hands coming up in front of her to take the brunt of the damage. She lays there a while, panting, recovering still, and a sting erupts in her knee.

Her heart skips a beat. _No. No, no, no._ This _can’t_ be happening.

She doesn’t want to look down, too afraid of what she’ll see if she does, a part of her dreading that, deep down, she already knows what she’ll see. But she does, and indeed, there is an an ugly bloody scratch on her knee. Her bony knee – _is that really her knee? It looks unfamiliar, this isn’t the body she remembers_ \- but all Sansa can think about is the debilitating pain pulsing rhythmically down her leg, and how she’s unlikely to be able to go out tomorrow, or the day after, or the upcoming two weeks by the looks of how deep the cut is.

 _Cersei told you that if you didn’t get your act together by next Wednesday, you could kiss the contract goodbye,_ and suddenly she feels like she can’t breathe anymore, the weight of it all crashing on her shoulders and with nobody there to share the load with, Sansa clutches at her chest, squeezes her eyes shut, doesn’t know what to do because she can’t run now and it’s ruined everything and _what the hell is she going to do?_

The hand that isn’t massaging the throb in her knee unconsciously brushes against her side, and she can feel it all coming back, flesh that ought not be there growing back because she was too damned stupid to look at where she was going, she can picture it, the strip of skin showing off under a top that is now too small, how the silk pants Cersei had just gone to the trouble of acquiring are going to need a new body to be shown off on, Sansa not even capable of filling her simple end of the contract they had signed, a gentle pull on the stitching keeping her broken parts together and months and months of control becoming undone in a heartbeat.

She sits there, in the middle of the dirty path, breath heaving, acid bile raising in the back of her throat and it’s really only because she has nothing left in her stomach that she avoids throwing up there and then. She can feel herself shaking, cold beads of sweat pearling on her shoulders and her hands feel clammy where she has them wrapped around her injured knee. She opens her eyes, and immediately draws back, repulsed at the sight before her, as two claw-like appendages scratch at her knee, long bony fingers coiling around the bruising skin like a snake around its prey. It’s disgusting, really, and she draws back in horror, as if, suddenly, the reality of what kind of monster she’s become begins to settle in.

 _What kind of creature does this to themselves?_ She thinks, suddenly, as she tries to drown a wave of nausea. Perhaps she really ought to have taken a bite before hastily locking the front door earlier.

What kind of ugly creature willingly destroys their own shell? There is no way Cersei would possibly ever want to work with the likes of her ever again, not with Sansa getting all sweaty and sick and dry heaving in the middle of her studio. How could she ever have possibly believed the fantastical web of tales she so effortlessly spun in front of her in the first place? _I’m stupid! A stupid little girl, with stupid dreams! Who never learns!_

Cersei’s poisonous voice coils around her, choking her as she sobs into her hands. She is so tired of this, of feeling so alone, with _her_ voice for only company. She’s choking, wishes it all to stop as tears stream down her cheeks, unchecked. Sansa doesn’t know how to escape, it’s been with her so long that it feels like it’s part of her now, engraved into her skin, she can never be free of the ugly thing. She doesn’t even know why anymore, but she knows she has to get up, she knows she has to lace her runner up again, knows she has to dust off her knee and just keep going, never mind the bruise, never mind the injury, she needs to get up and she needs to run-

_So, what is it about Monet that you really like then?_

It’s like being doused in cold water, unexpected, but not unwelcome, as Sansa can finally feel herself able to breathe again. She greedily takes in the air her lungs were so starved of as she pictures Margaery Tyrell beside her, her head slightly inclined to the left, curiosity brimming in her eyes and that excited smile arched on her lips. Despite her absence, Sansa can swear she feels –or perhaps imagine, but she’s not really hell bent on the details right now- Margaery’s warm presence like a blanket over her trembling shoulders, she recalls her honey sweet voice as she look up, the municipality’s lake right in front of her, a few lilies wandering aimlessly on the water. 

_I can imagine, quite an amazing garden he must have had._

She doesn’t know why, but she pictures them then, both of them, holding hands, actually visiting Monet’s garden in Giverny, strolling through a real-life replica of the postcard Aunt Lysa had sent her. She imagines them talking (about flowers, about art, about cute kittens, or the cupcakes from the local bakery, Sansa isn’t too sure which, all she knows is that she loves talking to Margaery), Margaery possibly even slipping an arm behind her back, rubbing soothing circles there as is sensing her distress. It’s calming, her head on her shoulder, as they both look at the flowers, time suspended and it’s just _them_. She thinks she hears Margaery encourage her to lean closer, to smell the flowers, and Sansa does, eagerly, the sweet scent soothing her somehow aching lungs _–they’re just strolling, why does it hurt so much?-_ all the while the soothing hand on her back never lets up.

The hand on her back catches her spine, Sansa can feel it linger over every ridge as if the flowered shirt she has on is inexistent, and she tries to cringe away from the touch. Margaery doesn’t deserve _that,_ nobody does – a lover is supposed to be soft, supple, warm, not bony, cold, half dead and panting for breath in front of some flowers. She means to apologise, truly, she does, but when she looks up and all she can see is Margaery smiling at her she swear she wants to cry, tears burning at the back of her eyes and something clogging her throat. Margaery radiates warmth and kindness, and she laps it up, eager for any scraps the other woman so freely offers her.

Maybe, and this is monumentally difficult to even begin to process but Sansa forces herself to push forward, just maybe she ought to be stopping this _thing_ she’s doing. Somewhere, deep down, she knows it’s dangerous, perhaps even deadly, and god knows she doesn’t wish for the life of her to put her family through that, but it’s just been _so hard_ to stop. Until now, that is. The little voice, sweet echo of the caress of a memory seems to life a foggy veil from her eyes, one that has been stuck there for far too long, and as Sansa watches the lilies afloat on the early blue lake in front of her, her hand ghosts her sweaty Tee-Shirt, her touch dissolving the fabric and feeling the skin pulled taut over her too preeminent ribs.

 _This is not normal. This is not normal. This is_ not _normal,_ she tells herself.

“This is not normal”, she whispers, her confession kept safe among the closed petal of the pink lily in front of her. Sansa flicks it away with a gentle brush of her finger, sends it off with her secret, glad she has shared it with someone.

And as she kneels there, catching her breath, it almost feels easier to breathe, her lungs don’t feel like they’re burning with every intake, she can feel her ribcage expanding once again, the ache in her muscles has dulled somewhat, now finally free of the burden that has been choking them for far too long. She doesn’t think she has yet fully processed the sickness, but somewhere, she acknowledges that running until her lungs feel like they’re about to burst is _wrong,_ that tomorrow, she will not be doing it. It might not solve the problem at hand, but she feels that it is somewhat a step taken in the right direction. It’s difficult though, telling herself to not get up tomorrow at some ungodly hour because it’s a break in her carefully scheduled routine, and if there’s anything Sansa has feared in the past year, it is precisely that. And perhaps the time has now come to put an end to that, to stop whatever interference Cersei still had over her life despite her father having pulled her out of the contract, perhaps this is finally the breaking point she needs to begging repairing it, and healing herself.

If not for her, then at least for Margaery. Sansa finds herself very loathe to disappoint her. It’s difficult, letting go, relinquishing the control, but as she keeps repeating it in her head _(Cersei doesn’t control me, this is wrong),_ it increasingly feels like it’s the right thing to do, and perhaps, she thinks, she doesn’t _have_ to be so hard on herself. _This is_ my _life, not Cersei’s,_ I _ought to be the one deciding where it goes._

And for the first time in what seems to her like forever, Sansa feels like she _wants_ to heal.

Her breath has come back, but it still feels painful, as it travels to her too tight lungs, making it’s way through her deformed body-

“What kind of monstrosity have I become?” A whisper lost to a gust of breeze, already taken war away by the time the words have past her lips, as Sansa looks at herself, her bony wrists, her dirty scratched knees, her jutting ankles, her body looks dull, lacks life, a human imitation of a _nature morte,_ as if her own body is merely hanging on by a thread, the only thing keeping it alive being the air she’d greedily took in mere moments ago.

She feels so out of place, when she looks around, the lush green grass dotted with yellow daisies, the buzz of a bee pollinating a few steps away from her, the murmur of the water to her left, a flock of little ducklings quacking together, their brown fluffy feathers a sharp contrast to the water they’re floating on. Father back, a quiet breeze riffles through the branches of a weeping willow, the leaves at the end of the branch cutting a sharp line in the perfect mirror of the water, and under their shelter, she thinks she can see a small black rabbit munching happily away, oblivious to both her presence and her own turmoil.

It feels wrong, for her to be here, for her to desecrate nature’s little life when she might as well the reincarnation of Death itself, but Sansa is feeling rather selfish this morning and is loath to leave behind the soothing picture in front of her. Especially when it dawns on her that, if the she hadn’t had this moment of clarity, perhaps in three weeks’ time she would never have gotten to see this ever again and would, actually, very much be _dead_. It’s true that, when she thinks about it, she may just have narrowly avoided Death, and suddenly, she has Margaery to thank for something far greater than merely lending her an attentive ear.

She owes Margaery a lot, she’s sure of it, but now that the amplitude of the problem has dawned on her, she finds herself unable to rationalise what exactly the next step ought to be. Sansa knows that, eventually, she is aiming to actually be able to eat without the whole damned guilt-trip thing, but it just seems such an inconceivable thing right now she might as well be wishing to a pet unicorn. It’s stupid, and she’s sure that anyone else would think it stupid too, but she doesn’t know how to do simple things like taking breakfast or indulging in a snack bar anymore, those were little things she has gradually learned to, first do without, and then eventually grow an irrational fear of. A slice of toast and butter was probably nothing to Arya, Robb and the others, but to her, all she can think of when she sees the stuff is the cloying smell of the butter, the way the fat glistens on the bread and automatically think how many mornings she’s going to have to run after indulging in it.

As if on cue, she feels hunger begin to gnaw at her stomach and Sansa now faces a dilemma. On the one hand, she really enjoys the lake, it’s calm, peaceful, quiet, and there’s nobody here yet besides the odd early jogger like herself, nobody to rupture the tranquil landscape around her, and she’s almost tempted to sit down and lay back in the dewy grass for a little, bask in the placidity of it all before returning home, to the usual fast-paced life the Stark family lead. On the other hand, though, she also finds herself really wanting to share a moment with her family, she hasn’t really gotten to see them all that much through her stay at the hospital and their own occupations, breakfast and dinner are about the only rare moments they have together, and Sansa knows she’s skipped quite a number of those lately, claiming to be too tired or too sick to attend. She checks her watch, and indeed, her father and probably Robb or Arya would be getting coffee or hot chocolate ready soon, the family being pretty early risers, even at the weekends.

It’s a second-long debate, but Sansa knows she has to start somewhere, and as the minutes go by, she really finds herself wanting to share some quality time with the others. And so, with a sight, she gets up, needing a moment to let the sudden dizzy spell pass and zips up the cardigan she had previously wrapped around her waist.

Her hands are fidgeting all the way home, anxiety pooling in her stomach, twisting uncomfortable knots and Sansa pauses once or twice on her way, taking it all in baby steps. This isn’t what she usually does, it’s a big break in her habitus, and she doesn’t wish to run the risk of setting herself back. She thinks of Margaery, thinks of the proud smile she might give her when they meet next time if Sansa can tell her she actually took her first breakfast in months, thinks of her smile and how she might feel little butterflies flutter in her chest, how her heartbeat might feel like it’s running away on her and the probable obvious shade of crimson that’ll spread across her cheeks. She doesn’t know why the thought affects her so, but it does, and it makes her feel warm, it is a little comfort on her way home.

She stops in front of the house, a bead of frozen sweat trickling tortuously slowly down the length of her back, and Sansa can feel all the ridges and imperfections as it goes. She wishes that, like a snake, she could simply slither out of the damaged skin she’s cuttingly entrapped in and just start anew, have a fresh body at her disposal and not screw up this time around, but alas, she had but a primitive human shell, just one, and she can’t afford to break it any further is she wishes to see Margaery again, especially not if she wishes to gain her approval by improving it. Sansa doesn’t want to go in, the smell emanating from the kitchen is already making her sick, but Nymeria is barking, the others probably know now that she is back home, and she can substitute herself to their presence no longer. The only way to go now is forward (which is what Sansa wishes to do, right?), to take that deep breath and step over the threshold and take her life back into her hands.

When she gets in, Nymeria is indeed there to greet her, the huge hound barely refrains from pouncing on her and instead immediately worries at her knee and Sansa only now remembers that she may need a trip to the bathroom first. She sighs in relief, now having a valid excuse to put off the inevitable just a while longer, and heads up the stairs, grabbing a towel as she slips through the bathroom door and locks it behind her, Nymeria still pawing behind her. It’s sweet, in a way.

It’s sweet until the unmistakable cloying smell of melted butter joins it, and Sansa feels like she’s about to throw up all over again. She leans on the wall, one hand steadying her trembling body as, with her other hand, she awkwardly unlaces her runners and kicks them gently to the side of the pile already there.

 _“Sansa, is that you?”_ It’s father’s voice, from the kitchen, and she can no longer ignore the inevitable. She heads over, her right hand restless as her nails dig into her palm, worrying at the skin there, trying as she might to take her mind off it. Sure enough, as she peeps through the kitchen opening, her father and Arya are at the table, the two early birds of the family, and she thinks she must have intruded on some quality time the two had been previously haring, she knows of the close bond they share, might even be a little jealous of it sometimes.

“Ah, there you are. I have a little toast on, would you like some?”

Sansa is trapped in the doorway, both her sister and her father’s eyes now on her, expecting an answer and her mind goes blank. She doesn’t want this, hates the attention and wishes even less to indulge them with breakfast, but _this is what you should be doing, right?_ A little voice nags at her, and somewhere, she knows it’s right, loathe as she is to admit it.

“I…”

She blanks. _God, she feels so stupid_.

“I need…” _This is not normal. This is not normal. This is not normal,_ she keeps repeating, because damn it if it isn’t pathetic that she cannot even bring herself to accept half a slice of toast. “I need a shower”, she instead blurts out, and takes off before either her father or her sister can say anything, leaving them both with a rather pexplexe look on their faces.

_Damn it, why are you so stupid. It’s fucking toast not a roast chicken!_

But as she stands beneath the hot water, Sansa feels like it’s insurmountable, just thinks of what a waste going out this morning will be if she gives in and takes that triangle dripping with melted fatty butter on it. She can already imagine Cersei’s-

No.

No, she’s already told herself this morning that Cersei Lannister ought not to control herself anymore, and, frustrated with herself, Sansa digs her nails into her scalp as she aggressively washes away the remainders of the shampoo before stepping out and drying off her hair with the first towel she can find. If not for her, then perhaps she can at least do this to give Cersei the middle finger? The woman would never know about it, of course, but Sansa has the nagging suspicion that it may just be quite victory lap, just a little thing she could hold over Cersei as she slowly works her way through undoing the conditioning she’s put her through. Sansa thinks about it as she towels her hair dry, she thinks about it as she tends to the injury on her knee with whatever supplies they have in the cupboard under the sink, and she thinks about it as she fastens the last button on her shirt as she closes the bathroom door behind her.      

If not for her, then she can do this to at least give Cersei the middle finger, she resolves, as she makes her way back to the kitchen.

Her father is still there, checking the news on his old mobile phone as he waits for his scalding coffee to cool lightly. Sansa pulls out a mug and a teabag from the press and picks up the kettle –still warm- and pours herself the drink –the smell if comforting, somewhat.

“So, where to today?” Her father asks her as she sits down, trying to engage in a rare conversation. They haven’t really had all that many since the before heading out to Margaery Tyrell’s office, and it’s not that Sansa really hates him for it –he is right to have done so- but she sort of kind of is, even if she knows it’s wrong. It’s small talk, they both know it, but for the sake of it, and actually wanting to have someone to talk to, Sansa indulges him.

“The lake, there’s not many people in the morning,” She keeps her eyes on him as she reaches a shaking hand out to the plate with the leftover triangles of toast, doesn’t look down as she picks one up. Her father, thankfully, doesn’t either, or if he does, he doesn’t say anything.

“See anything interesting along the way?”

Sansa is about to tell him yes, pour her heart out and tell him about the lake and her wandering thoughts on Monet but decides against it, probably because he wouldn’t understand (she loves her father, she really does, but he just isn’t really the artistic type), and perhaps because it’s is not something she wishes to share with him. The lilies, the paintings, Monet, all that talk, that’s something she and Margaery share, a little secret box she keeps tucked safe somewhere nobody can find, and Sansa doesn’t think she wants her father intruding on that. She loves him, she really does, but this isn’t something she feels that she can chare with him, because despite his good will (and gods knew he was too kind for his own good) he just wouldn’t understand. So she keeps it simple instead.

“The flowers were pretty, and there were a few ducks on the lake. It’s nice seeing them about.”

He smiles and Nymeria comes over, nuzzles him for a pet and he indulges her as Sansa indulges in the other half of the slice of toast _–you earned it, it’s okay, this is normal-,_ and if her father is watching from the corner of his eye, Sansa doesn’t really notice.

“Careful not to give her too much, she has her nuts,” He says, the hint of a chuckle lacing his words and Sansa smiles. _This_ is what she missed, just being able to sit back, relax and casually just _talk_ with the others instead of constantly hiding herself away in her room. She likes it, feels her chest swell as her father tells her about his and her mother’s eventful week, how they nearly lost a dozen loaves of bread on the way to the old folk’s home because someone had scribbled the wrong address on the paper. It’s light hearted and fun, and she finds herself smiling along with him as he relates it all in good humour, before he gets up, pretexting having an order to check up on. But he stops beside her on his way out.

“It’s good you know,” His warm and calloused hand falls on her shoulder, it’s familiar, safe and most welcomed, Sansa relishing in the affectionate touch she hasn’t felt like she’s had in a _long_ time, “This”, he gestures vaguely to the table, not entering any details for fear of upsetting what meagre progress might just have been made.

And while he may not see it as he walks out of the kitchen, Sansa beams, a heavy lump in her throat, pride and guilt battling somewhere in her chest. Deep down she knows she has done the right thing, she merely wishes for it to be easier, for it to be _normal_ , like any other _normal_ human being. It’s just _fucking breakfast,_ she tells herself, it’s not like it was poisoned or anything. She can’t decide what to make of it, pride or frustration, but the tea and toast sit heavily in her stomach, and while she doesn’t feel like she’s urgently repressing the need to throw up, it doesn’t feel like much of the victory she’d imagined it might be. Perhaps there really _is_ something wrong with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm back from three months' work in Hungary, fingers crossed updating might be alittle quicker now :)


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Margaery have a talk and Sansa comes to a few realizations.

They see each other regularly, once every Friday, and Margaery has to admit, it has quickly become the highlight of her week. She doesn’t really notice it, at the start. It’s not until her mother catches her reading the new book she bought on impressionist painters, asks her why when Margaery has never shown any particular fondness for any of the painters before and has to stop her half way through her full three part academic-like explanation as to why she likes _the pretty girl_ she is currently seeing once a week and wants to be able to talk about something she likes because maybe she cares about her a little more than her other patients that it fully hits her.

 _She has a crush._ And a very _big_ one at that. _Damn it, Margaery, whatever happened to “keep a safe distance”?_ And when she tries to rewind all of their past interactions, the therapist doesn’t even really know where it all started, but when she looks after the rosebush in her garden and thinks back to a certain patient, imagines sitting down and sharing the lovely cakes her mother dropped off on Friday evening with a certain auburn haired woman and wakes up one weekend fully expecting to turn around and meet a dazzling pair of blue eyes and kiss her good morning, only to be disappointed when it turns out to be one of her fantasies that Margaery thinks she may just have a little problem. She likes Sansa, _a lot._

She knows that she probably shouldn’t, that it’s not at all what is stipulated in the strict therapist code of conduct she learnt while studying (and her teacher would probably be scandalized by her errand thoughts), but Margaery thinks it’s far too late now, and besides, she’s never really been one to play by the rules. She keeps her pinning mostly to herself, not particularly wanting to have this conversation with her mother of all people, and her brother is currently off on holidays with his own partner, Margaery knows better than to bother him and Renly. She might share the occasional chat with Brienne, ask her how things are going with Jaime, and is genuinely happy to see the other woman’s face light up as she recounts how they have now moved in together and how she is planning to, perhaps, propose to him soon, and is just thinking up of the perfect moment, how best to make it a surprise. Margaery is happy for her, she really is –tells her so, Brienne deserves the best-, wishes she could feel as ecstatic for her as a good friend ought to, but the mild jealousy she feels itching beneath her skin sometimes prevents her, whatever higher being was out there tortuously dragging a rose along her skin, soft blush petals barely touching and yet it’s thorn ever a reminder of the ache she now had for company. She feels guilty for it, knows Brienne and Jaime are not to blame and that this whole fantasy is impossible, anyway, and Sansa has surely has more important things to worry about than a stupid crush, one that is probably unrequited anyway-

“You might want to tell her, you know,” Brienne says from across the room, as she files away the odd folders that may have been forgotten the night before, ever meticulous.

“Tell who… _What,_ exactly?” She stutters, cringing at having been caught off guard and not sure she is liking where this is headed. Margaery hasn’t a clue as to what Brienne is talking about, yet she can feel dread in the pits of her stomach mounting far faster than she would like, and she isn’t quite sure she wants to have this conversation at all.

“Sansa Stark. You think I haven’t noticed?”

If Brienne is honest, she and Jaime may have just placed bets on who would cave in first. Jaime has given her a month, but Brienne is confident she knows Margaery better –what with being around her all day and actually being her close confidant and all that- and knows he is probably going to owe her that restaurant they bet on. It’s all in good fun, really, she knows they’re both looking forward to eating out, that this is just a little light-heartedness between them. They’re also both rooting for Margaery, Jaime even asks her, sometimes, _how’s your friend and her crush doing?_ He would ask, and Brienne would laugh, because, honestly, she never would have pinned him down as the type.

“Jaime is also really following this whole story.”

“You _told_ him?” And for a moment, Margaery looks scandalized, hand on her chest, mouth hanging wide open, the whole lot, and Brienne finds it almost comical if she knew Margaery _isn’t_ actually acting.

“I didn’t mean any harm, I swear. We’re both behind you on this one. But,” and she takes a step forward, puts a gentle hand on her colleague’s shoulder and Margaery accepts it, ire already dissipating. “If you like her, you should go for it. Remember what you told me when I wasn’t sure? _You’ll regret it otherwise,_ and now that I know what I would have missed out on, I know I would. Perhaps you may wish to heed your own advice, you don’t deserve that.”

It’s in moments like these that Margaery truly appreciates their friendship, knows that Brienne understands her in ways nobody else does, and that she’s always there if she needs her. A shoulder to lean on, someone to laugh with, someone she can be honest with, someone she learns from, someone she trusts completely, and she doesn’t have many people like her in her life.

“It’s just… I don’t know what to do. We’re seeing each other regularly and I really do love the time we share together, but I don’t _know_ how to take it further. It’s like… It’s like we’ve reached a standstill, we have for a few weeks now, talking about painting and art and what museums and galleries I’d like to visit is truly lovely, really, I enjoy talking about it, but it’s not the problem at hand, and I just _can’t_ seem to get Sansa to realize it. If I could at least help her do that…”

_I truly do want to help you Sansa, I care for you, if only you could actually see it._

“Well, perhaps you can talk, about something else than why she’s here.” Brienne offers, and Margaery would like to take her up on that, except that it’s pretty much what she and Sansa _do_. They talk about flowers, art, Monet, museums, and Margaery loves it all, but they still haven’t gotten to the core problem, she hasn’t gotten to that point yet, and she knows she needs to if Sansa is to recover. She just knows her client isn’t very keen on confronting the elephant in the room yet and after all the progress they have accomplished together, Margaery really doesn’t want to see it come crashing down just yet, not when she feels that there is still so much they can do together.

“It helped with Jaime, you know.”

Margaery looks back at her then, the intimate revelation quite unexpected. It’s not that Brienne doesn’t tell her anything about her love-life with the man (quite the contrary, and Margaery enjoys their occasional blunders and adventures), but she knows how self-conscious Jamie is of his missing limb, knows how difficult it is to come to terms, accept and move on from such a traumatic event, she just can’t quite imagine the combination of _Jaime Lannister_ and _talking about his feelings since his injury_ as leading to any kind of positive outcome in Brienne’s and his’ love life, and yet…

She knows she’ll have to get to the point eventually, that is _why_ Sansa is here (and _not_ because you have a crush on her), she’s just terrified of taking the wrong step and see everything they’ve managed to build together come to an abrupt halt. Margaery _really_ doesn’t want that.

“Maybe she’d like these?” Brienne offers, gesturing to a little package on her table. “Jaime gave them to me this morning –lemon cakes from Podrick’s patisserie- if you think it could help, they’re all yours. I don’t think I’ll be eating them all anyway, and Jamie and I are going out this evening.”

Margaery is truly touched, initially wants to refuse because these are a gift from Jaime, but Brienne looks so earnest when she actually brings them over and offers the box to her in her open hands and Margaery doesn’t think she can find it in herself to refuse, it would just be mean.

“All right, I’ll give it a shot,” She concedes, knowing the has made the right decision when Brienne beams at her, and before the other woman can ask the question, Margaery is already answering, “and _yes,_ I’ll let you know how thigs turn out, _I promise_.” She draws out the last one, thinking she may as well lend herself to the game Brienne and her partner are playing.

Checking her watch, Margaery sees that she has another half an hour before Sansa is due for their weekly meeting, and goes about tidying her office and making it as comfortable as possible. There’s not much to tidy, truth be told, for once, she’s managed to keep the office in a pristine state, straightened the lopsided Klimt painting hanging on the wall and is now staring back at the pink flowers on the lush green bush. She remembers, how touched she had been when her father had offered it to her as a means to celebrate her finally getting her own consultation cabinet, Margaery had been so proud when she’d hung it up, and despite having gotten the comment or two about how she ought to take it down, she’s never had it in herself to do so. It holds meaning to her, it’s her parents’ way of still being here even though they’re far away, and Margaery can feel their her mother’s warm smile and her father’s reassuring hand on her shoulder each time she closes a case and declares her patient as returned to health.

 _Speaking of_ un _healthy…_ Margaery eyes the package Brienne left on her desk: a neat little cardboard box wrapped in a shiny purple bow, the elegant curve of the patisserie scrolled out on the lid. The smell of lemon is overwhelming, a nice change from the artificial incenses Margaery has in the corner of the office (she remembers that she still hasn’t changed the thing, and probably ought to get to it at the weekend) and, very delicately, she seized the edge of the bow and gives a tug, the knot coming undone and the ribbon falling into her hand. She opens the box to see four round little lemon cakes coated in a very fine layer of sugar, and almost instantly, her hand goes for it. But as her hand is about to touch the topping, she draws back, feeling it would be somehow selfish to keep them all to herself.

She hadn’t initially given it much thought, given why Sansa is coming to see her, but as Margaery eyes the little cakes, Brienne’s idea doesn’t seem too farfetched after all. _Maybe Sansa_ would _like them if Margaery could play this right?_ And before she thinks it through, she’s already looking for a plate in the small kitchen area of the office, picking the top one with the little floral engravings on the side. _Perhaps if Sansa likes the plate, it won’t seem as difficult for her,_ she thinks, if the other girl can get that Margaery isn’t trying to get at her, but trying to _genuinely_ help her because she _genuinely_ cares, then maybe it might be a little step in the right direction.

And, to her astonishment and delight, it actually _works_.

Sansa is hesitant at the start, guarded even, as if she expects the cakes to actually jump up and harm her or for Margaery to say some depreciating comment by the way her eyes worriedly flicker to her face every now and then, but it works. Margaery doesn’t comment on it, instead letting Sansa talk. And Sansa _does_ talk now, it has taken her a while to come out of her shell, but as their meetings progress and Sansa is slowly realizing that, with her, she can talk freely and that Margaery has a considerate interest in the arts, her patient is gradually opening up, saying more, talking more vividly, her deploring of how she wishes Monet and Klimt could have somehow met layered with longing and wistfulness merely imagining all of the deep and meaningful exchanges they could have had.

Margaery agrees, nods along and smiles, noting with interest that Sansa, again, has one of those flowery shirts hanging of her rail-thin frame, and just for a moment, she would like to think that Sansa did it for _her_.

“What?” Sansa abruptly cuts herself off, the hint of laughter on her tongue and _oh!_ How Margaery would love to hear it –has perhaps even dreamed of it, if she’s to be honest. “Was it something I said?”

“No, no, not at all,” She rushes to reassure her, not wanting their progress to come to a halt, knowing Sansa might block herself if she perceives what she is doing as wrong (and it isn’t, she’s doing great and Margaery tells her so), “It’s just that, I like how you always come with flowered shirt.” She says, a little sheepishly, and hopes it doesn’t come off as bad as it sounds in her head.

Sansa, for her part, looks down, and although it’s hidden behind her waves of red hair, Margaery is pretty sure she can see the hints of the cutest blush begin to appear on the tip of her nose, and she just want to kiss it. _Wow, hold on, Margaery, take it easy._ This crush business decidedly isn’t doing her any favours.

Instead, she keeps her feelings to herself and listens, as Sansa talks about the Klimt’s _Apple Tree,_ and how, if they weren’t stuck in the council house, she would love for the family to have a big garden Nymeria could run around in, where she’d have an entire area sectioned off where they would plant  pretty flowers, perhaps even grow an orchard one day, where they could sit under the shade of the trees in the hot summer days, a book in her hands while Bran and Rickon would play cards, the family dog coming over occasionally looking for a pet.

Sansa describes her colours, the lush green of the grass or the silver coating of her dog’s fur, tells her how the flowers would smell, how the grass would feel beneath her fingers, how the breeze would run through her hair as she would lay down, and Margaery almost forgets she’s supposed to be a therapist, solely engaged in daydreaming the picture her patient is depicting. She can see it, see _them,_ alone in a garden, under the comforting shade of a tree, Sansa putting together a crown of daisies as she lazily flickers through the pages of a book, Sansa gently deposing the piece of art upon her head and Margaery gently embracing her, perhaps even leaning in to _–no, no, no. You really need to concentrate Margaery._

It’s difficult, really, when Sansa is sitting right there, making it (for some reason Margaery cannot fathom nor really wants to understand) really hard to merely stick to being professional. She looks so _happy,_ so different from that first time she saw her sulking behind her father and barely saying a word, and Margaery truly wants for her to be happy.

She tries really hard to not let it show when she sees Sansa going for a second one of the small lemon cakes, sees how Sansa does everything to keep her attention off her wandering hand and how she bites her lip and catches herself having to reformulate what she is saying once or twice (which is perfectly okay, Margaery doesn’t mind). Still, she does not comment on it, merely leans back and watches, a small curve in her lips she is unable to supress despite wishing it to be inconspicuous.

“It’s all an illusion, really,” Sansa says, and Margaery isn’t too sure whether she is talking about the painting or herself, “At first glance, it doesn’t look like much, just one plain layer, and it’s only when you look deeper that you can see the finer detail, the complexity behind the apparent first impressions. It’s very clever, actually.” She finishes, and looks up at her, and Margaery swears her heart skips a beat, because Sansa’s cheeks are gently rose-tinted and the, her genuine smile reaches her eyes, a little crinkle in the skin at the edges, and she looks so genuinely happy that her heart almost aches to tell her that this is why she’s so happy to see that their conversations are working.

She hasn’t pushed her, yet Margaery senses that she’s getting to know Sansa, is aware of the privilege it is to see her dare to bloom in her office, taking the risk of opening up, letting the petals expand knowing the risks she is exposing herself to. Margaery knows it takes a non-negligible amount of courage to do so, is glad to know that she can let Eddard Stark in on their progress next time they see each other and explain to him that while it may not be what he is expecting, it is important for Sansa to first and foremost learn how to feel at ease again before tackling the core of the issue.

They’re getting there, though, because, to her delight, Sansa actually finishes the second small lemon cake she’d picked up half an hour ago and is currently reaching for a third one, and, in the spur of the moment, Margaery cannot supress her satisfaction.

“If I had known you liked these so much, I’d have brought a second packet for sure!” She says, chuckling, eagerly gesturing for Sansa to help herself as much as she pleases. Perhaps they have managed to progress faster than she’d initially expected, which Margaery has absolutely no problem with, the sooner her patient is up on her feet again, the better. True, she might miss her once she’s gone, but Sansa if Sansa being gone and Margaery never seeing her again means that Sansa is once again healthy and well on her road to recovery, well Margaery supposes that never seeing her after this is all over with is a small price to pay.

Only things don’t go smoothly, they never do, and as her hand retracts as if burnt and Sansa freezes in her chair, Margaery feels like internally hitting herself. _You really ought to think before opening your mouth next time, Margaery,_ she internally berates herself as she’s scrambling to try and fix this. Sansa is already panicking, possibly even trying to mumble an incoherent apology and Margaery sees red – _what kind of monster makes you feel guilty for eating four fucking lemon cakes?_

“Hey, hey,” She tries to be soothing, her hand reaching out and gently brushing Sansa’s tiny wrist. The other girl freezes, unsure as to what to do, and Margaery seizes the opportunity, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it that way-“

“No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t-“ Sansa tries to say, tries to _apologize_ and Margaery can’t believe it. It’s only a few cakes, if the poor girl in front of her is nearly in tears because she feels guilty for eating a few tiny cakes, Margaery can only begin to imagine what kind of hell the past few years must have been for her. Well, Eddard Stark was right to have come, and he was the one who trusted her to try and help his daughter, and damn it if Margaery isn’t going to stop at the first hurdle.

“Don’t apologize,” She says first, gently. She draws her hands back, puts them up as a means to show she means no harm and poor Sansa looks back up at her like one of those spooked horses she’s seen in rescue chronicles on TV. It makes something clench uncomfortably in her chest, because _it just isn’t fair,_ nobody should be spooked like this, least of all because of a few miserly lemon cakes. And damn it, if Margaery can’t fix everything, she knows that Sansa deserves to at least learn how to like lemon cakes again and be able to eat them without having guilt and regret knowing at her stomach while doing so.

“Don’t apologize,” She says again, will repeat it as many times as Sansa needs until she understands that this is _okay,_ wanting to eat a biscuit or a snack from time to time is _okay_. Because it is, and the thought that Sansa has it in her head that it is somehow wrong to indulge herself from time to time makes Margaery feel so bad for her, and by extension, anybody afflicted by her condition, because a life supressing ones’ wants just seems so bleak to her that it is, in earnest, unfathomable.

Sansa wishes she could believe her, wants to believe Margaery, but all she can think of is Cersei and how she’d had to apologize to her that day she’d had one too many of the aperitif biscuits during a contract signing and how the woman had made her swear to _never do that again, little bird, or we might lose contractors, and you just can’t afford that, can you?_ She remembers, then, how family gatherings, celebrations, birthdays had been so difficult to handle from then, especially when it was hers. She remembers, the broken look on her mother’s face when she’d barely touched a quarter of the slice of lemon cake they had gotten her for her birthday and had wanted to cry with guilt at doing this to them. Here they were, her mother and the rest of her family going to incredible lengths for her, and Sansa couldn’t bring herself to be appreciative because of the shooting she had with Cersei Lannister the following week.

It had been an incessant tug-and-pull for years, and Sansa is exhausted down to the bone. She can feel it, how constantly tired she is, but Cersei’s voice in the back of her head, which has gradually become some sort of broken record, is constantly there to remind her of the consequences of letting herself go and how she, nor her family by extent (if Sansa truly cares to bring in that cash at the end of the month to help out, gods know her parents need it) can afford for her to slip up. It just isn’t remotely compatible with what Margaery is trying to tell her, and Sansa feels like she’s drowning and can’t remember how to swim to save her life. How can she return to what everybody tells her is normal when she can’t make the distinction between what is normal and what isn’t anymore?

Three months ago, a lemon cake would have been out of the question, Cersei would probably tell her she ought to lay off everything for a week and Sansa would believe her, yet here Margaery is, encouraging her to go for it, saying _it’s all right,_ that nothing bad will come of it, and Sansa doesn’t know what to believe anymore. She can feel the very foundations of the life she’s been living on for the past year beginning to erode, and she is desperately trying to keep the entire framework from crumbling down around her. Her father seems to think she ought to, Margaery probably does too, but Sansa _can’t,_ not like this, when she has nothing to cling to in the aftermath, and the thought of it eventually happening is terrifying to her.

On the other hand, though, if she tries to push aside the guilt, the lemon cake actually does taste, dare she say it… _Nice?_ It’s sweet, but not too much, a little acid and the texture of the coated sugar is so foreign that Sansa possibly enjoys discovering it again more than eating the actual cake. She tries to focus on that, on re-familiarizing herself with the taste of her birthday, of Sunday afternoons helping her father in the patisserie part of the bakery and of gatherings with Aunt Lysa in the spring instead of lingering on the fact that she’s breaking one of Cersei’s rules.

It helps, a little, but Sansa knows she’s going to have to wake up early tomorrow and run it off in the-

She looks up, and the wide smile Margaery gives her is too much. Sansa chokes down the piece of cake in her mouth as the most discourteous sob escapes her and it’s when the blurry therapist reaches for the handkerchief box on the bookshelf lining the wall of her cabinet that Sansa realizes that she’s crying.

 _I can’t, I can’t, I can’t_ she keeps repeating like a mantra. It must come out, because Margaery puts one hand on her shoulder while her other one gently comes up to her face, a delicate finger wiping her tears away in a tender brush. She probably means it as a comforting gesture, but the sheer tenderness of it has Sansa sobbing even harder as she curls into herself, hands around her arms and shoulders hunched. She wants to apologize, means to tell Margaery how sorry she is for wasting her time – _she is not here to baby you along, get it together!_ \- but Sansa can’t help it, the bloody tiny biscuit is too much for her.

She doesn’t know how, but they have somehow ended up on the floor of her office, Sansa gripping the front of her shirt as she cries into her shoulder and Margaery wants to tell her it’s okay, that she can let it all out as she rubs a comforting hand up her back, trying not to linger on the spine she can feel protruding between her fingers.

Sansa is still crying, and after a while, she isn’t really sure why anymore, because this goes far beyond just not eating a tiny cake, she feels like it’s a lot bigger than that. It feels good, to be able to unload it somewhere, in the company of someone who understands, who has shown her kindness, who she knows she can trust. But she also knows Margaery is just her therapist, is probably thinking that this is all quite ridiculous, which is not really how Sansa wants to come across to her.

“I-I’m sorry,” She eventually says between hiccups, stubbornly says the words again despite Margaery’s earlier objection to them, and she doesn’t know whether it’s her smile or the warmth of the embrace around her, but she feels something coming loose inside her, and like the tears rolling down her cheek, she cannot stop the words from tumbling rather unceremoniously out of her mouth in what she is certain is an incomprehensible statement. “I just can’t, because every time it’s like Cersei is there, her hand on my shoulder, her words in my head, her breath on my neck, she’s always there and I…”

She cuts herself off abruptly when Margaery’s hand comes up to her face, pushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear and her thumb softly wiping the tears away, and Sansa has to bite her lip to stifle another sob. She honestly cannot remember the last time someone outside from the family has shown her such genuine affection, but it just feels _so nice_ and so like something she’d like to experience again that she can’t help but lean into it, grateful that Margaery doesn’t pull her hand away when she does.

It’s quiet in the room, Sansa’s sobs gradually dying down much to Margaery’s relief as her other hand rubs soothing circles on the other girl’s shoulder. She doesn’t say a word, afraid it might break whatever aura of tranquillity they are currently bathing in, and instead hopes her presence is enough to soothe the crying girl in her arms. Without even thinking twice, Margaery lays her head on Sansa’s, giving it a quick kiss beforehand, as she proceeds to rock them gently from left to right in a soothing swaying motion.

“Don’t live your life for Cersei Lannister”, she says eventually, after a long, but not uncomfortable, silence settles between them, her words merely a whisper, a pledge only meant to be shared between the two of them. Sansa looks up at her then, eyes red and confused and nose all runny, on the verge of crying again, and before she can, Margaery decides that perhaps she ought to clarify what exactly she means, “This is _your_ life, Cersei Lannister ought not to rule how you live it, _you_ should.”

Sansa’s eyes widen, as Margaery’s words seem to work their spell, as she truly takes in the meaning behind them. She has never really considered it this way up until now, she’s always just assumed that abiding by Cersei Lannister’s rules in and out of work were the means by which she and her family could get by, bring a little extra money in for the family at the end of the month to help out where she could. True, it had been rather difficult, at first, but Sansa had eventually gotten used to it, so much so that it has become somewhat of a norm for her now, and so what if, at times, she would come home only to lock herself away in her room and cry herself to sleep after a bad day? The paycheque eventually did come in, Sansa used to think it made it all worthwhile.

Perhaps it was even comforting, having Cersei Lannister make all the decisions in her life, the prospects of having to take all that back in her own hands is truly daunting.

But that wasn’t living, was it? And that is where Sansa realizes the problem lies: there is a difference between _living_ and _existing,_ and the past year has felt quite a lot like the latter. The past year has essentially consisted, for her, to exist for Cersei Lannister, comply to her demands submissively and cause no trouble, and perhaps that actually _is_ a problem, because, when Sansa truly thinks about it, who truly lives for somebody else?

 _That’s not living, that’s not normal_ she tells herself. Much like her current condition _isn’t normal,_ and as Sansa hangs on to Margaery’s hand for dear life –she’ll drown otherwise, she knows it- she is truly relieved to have somebody there as all of the past few years dawns on her, the weight of it all seemingly crushing her frail shoulders beneath their weight. It’s too heavy a load, and needing the support now more than ever, she barely thinks it through before leaning on Margaery’s shoulder, exhaustion coursing through her bones down to their narrow. She truly has hit rock bottom it would seem, and Sansa isn’t quite sure where she’s going to go from here, but it feels good to have someone to share the load with, Margaery is warm and comforting beside her.

And, perhaps it also feels nice to have someone like her, who knows this isn’t normal, looking out for her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Braimie deserved better guys :(


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Margaery share a meaningful conversation, and Sansa has a lot of feelings.

They never bring up Cersei Lannister again, and for that Sansa is eternally grateful. Her twin brother, Jaime, pops up from time to time during their conversations, when Margaery updates her on how things are going between him and her good friend Brienne in that low conspiracy-like voice, and Sansa has, despite herself, gotten quite invested in following the pair’s weekly romantic adventures. She listens with interest, as Margaery relays how the three of them had gone out for a meal last Saturday, and how the taller woman had made fun of her partner when crumbs of the bread they had been offered as an entrée stubbornly clung to his stubble, or that time when, shortly before Halloween last year, Jaime had popped in by surprise, and brought her a bouquet of flowers in quite an unexpected (but none the less appreciated) gesture –Brienne had gone bright red, unable to voice the right words to express her delight, but had kept the gifts on her desk, carefully watering them every morning ever since. Margaery had found the whole thing quite hilarious to watch, but sweet too, because Brienne deserved to have someone pamper her a little.

Sansa has seen the picture Brienne has framed beside them, the two seem to be content together –Brienne’s head resting on Jaime’s shoulder, a cliché that might look too plain or too ordinary to the random client coming to Margaery’s office, but Sansa finds that perhaps, the utter mundanity of the picture is precisely what makes its charm. They both look very happy –not in an overly exuberant way, their smiles are both quite discreet- probably show it in a way only they know how to decipher, and Sansa isn’t one to judge whether that is right or wrong. She guesses that if the cliché holds meaning to Brienne and she wants to show it off, then that’s what matters. She’s happy the other woman has someone who so completely loves her, it’s a little things that never fails to make her smile, when she catches the picture when she arrives for her regular session with Margaery.

And yet, at the same time, she feels a sort of hollowness in her chest at seeing such tangible happiness, but is forever just out of reach for her fingers to brush.

Margaery looks after that, though, she is too nice for her own good, Sansa thinks. Sansa wants to tell her to stop, that she’s not worth Margaery burning bright and giving her all of her kindness to only to leave herself with hollow regret later. Margaery deserves better than her -broken, screwed-up, _sick_ Sansa- she doesn’t want to see her bubbling joy snuffed out by having to dig deeper in herself each time to offer her her kind words and gentle touches. It’s too high a price to pay for merely being polite and observing a code of conduct she has no choice but to abide by.

But she also can’t quite find it in herself to tell her so, she likes the contact they share too much to not be selfish about it. It’s something she looks forward to, the way Margaery takes Sansa’s hand in her own as she welcomes her, leads her into her office and absentmindedly brushes a hand on her shoulder as she walks past her to settle into her own chair, the occasional cup of coffee or tea with her. It turns out that Sansa quite likes the tea, she is quite surprised to admit, perhaps it is even why she has gone to the bother of picking up a box of blueberry merlot, because pleasing her is something that brings Margaery genuine delight. She wasn’t too sure, at first, if it was the right move to make, but it seems to have worked, and Margaery is thrilled when she goes from hesitantly accepting it to carefully cupping the mug in both her hands and bringing the warm drink to her lips like it were completely normal, the deer-in-the-headlights look gradually –and _thankfully_ \- fading away from her eyes.

It also makes it easier for them to talk, perhaps is even what helps Sansa’s tongue unwind as they talk about Van Gogh’s sunflowers, Vermeer’s time-frozen pieces or Monet’s water lilies. Sansa seems to have developed a preference for the flowers though, Margaery observes, likes offering them to her mother on her birthday, likes picking one or two that might catch her eye when she brings Nymeria out for a walk and carefully putting it in her hair, tucked neatly behind her ear, likes talking about them, even wearing them: she has noticed how the redhead has taken to almost exclusively wear an array of different-coloured flowered shirts when she comes now, and she quite likes the attention (it _has_ to be intentional at this point, right?), but isn’t sure whether she ought to say it out loud, given that it would not be strictly professional on her part. Granted, the garments unfortunately still hang off her shoulders, and Margaery can still see the redhead’s collarbone peeking out from underneath the collar, where she always leaves the top two buttons open –and of course, she has to remind herself that things like this take _time,_ and it’s why Sansa comes to see her _-_ but as she catches Sansa smiling a little more often as she begins learning how to heal, she vows that she’ll see both of them through this.

And, a few weeks later of a month and a half (Margaery isn’t quite sure, time seems to fly when they’re together), when Sansa goes, unprompted, for one of the biscuits on the plate Margaery has set down for them and dips it into her tea, hums and smiles as she lets herself take the time to taste the melted chocolate on her tongue, she feels like it’s a small victory. She doesn’t let it show, thinks this is an achievement Sansa ought to celebrate fully by herself, and merely smiles a little wider when she catches the redhead’s eyes flicker to hers. And Sansa is relieved for that, truly. It is far from what she expected this whole therapy business would be the first time her father dragged her here, but she has to admit that Margaery has turned out to be quite the surprise, and the fact that she _doesn’t_ comment on or watch her like a hawk when she goes for the biscuit, nibbles it painfully slowly, and drowns the aftertaste with the tea is an immense relief.

So is the fact that she doesn’t immediately feel guilt clawing at her stomach urging her to run until her lungs feel like bursting and sweat dribbles down her back and makes her T-Shirt cling to her uncomfortably. It must show on her face, however, because Margaery tilts hers to the side and leans in, concern etched on her fine features and hands hovering over her own, but ever waiting for her permission to touch.

“Is something wrong, Sansa?” Margaery actually has to stop her hand from actually going to Sansa’s wrist in an immediate gesture of comfort, knows better now than to startle the other girl with unwanted contact. She feels her chest constrict, however, when she sees her patient bite her lip, eyes moist and a lump in her throat she is desperately trying to swallow down. Margaery is pained that Sansa would try to bottle up her emotions in her company, wishes for the other girl to know that in here, in the confines of her cabinet, she didn’t have to reign in on her feelings, anything that happened here would remain between them.

“I… I don’t feel guilty.” Sansa says, whispers, confused, as if saying it louder is impossible on the spot, the dawning realization sending her heartbeat soaring. “Margaery,” her hands unconsciously go for the therapist’s, clings to them like a lifeline afraid that if she is to let go, then her progress will turn to dust under her nose, “Margaery, I ate and didn’t feel guilty!” Sansa doesn’t even know why she the sudden smile on her face is so wide it’s hurting her cheeks, nor why everything seems blurry and she thinks there may be a dampness on her cheeks nor why her hands are shaking around Margaery’s: this is so tiny, so insignificant, she _knows_ it shouldn’t feel like something to celebrate, and yet, she can’t stop the swell in her chest as the lingering taste of the tea and biscuit crumbs actually feels _nice_ on her tongue. It’s the first time in…. what must be years, and all she can think of is how this is exactly how she felt when digging into that chocolate cake on her twelfth birthday, the rest of her family waiting for her to take the first bite with baited breath before digging in to their share.

Margaery doesn’t begrudge her sudden outburst, though, understands that recovery comes in baby steps, and this is might just be one of them. If anything, she’s absolutely thrilled for Sansa.

“Is… Is this normal?” Because Sansa honestly isn’t sure, she doesn’t even know what _normal_ is anymore. When she was five years old and would come home from school in the afternoon, eating the bottom left slice of the cake Aunt Lysa made for them was _normal_ , when she was twelve years old, having a preference for home-grown carrots rather than the ones bought at the grocery store was _normal_ , when she was sixteen years old, baking a home-made chocolate cake for the family _because she felt like_ it was _normal_ , and then Cersei came in. And normal changed, drastically.

Running until her lungs burned is normal. Making another extra hole in her belt is normal. Climbing on the bathroom scales every Sunday morning, sweat running down her back and knots in her stomach is normal. Not feeling guilty after eating a biscuit is _not_. And Sansa doesn’t know what to do, needs Margaery’s guidance or she is certain she is just going to go back to what she knows, which she now knows she _shouldn’t_. She _needs_ Margaery, looks at her imploringly, begging her in everything but words to tell her what normal actually _is_. Sansa trusts her, she _knows,_ somewhere, that she isn’t out to get her, and the realization is sort of comforting.

Margaery feels her heart clench in her chest and wants to scream as she looks at the girl. What could she possibly have been through to end up thinking this as normal?! She cannot even begin to imagine, nor does she want to let such thoughts lead her astray, the deep ache in her chest is more than enough for her.

It is made even worse because she does not feel entitled to such anger, not when Sansa doesn’t express it herself, and Margaery feels like it would be intruding on something that does not belong to her were she to express outrage where it is neither welcomed nor understood. Because, at the very core of Sansa’s question lays the uncomfortable truth that this affliction of hers does not even register as _abnormal_ , and while curing the physical ailment is something Margaery can guarantee, deconstructing the framework of Sansa’s mind, redefining what is normal from what is not, is another task entirely, one that is far more daunting.

“Yes, yes this is very much normal Sansa,” She says instead, while trying to keep her voice from betraying her feelings, and at the way Sansa looks at her, eyes wide open and features soaking in her words, Margaery’s anger dissipates. She keeps nodding when the redhead repeats the words to herself, quietly, unsure, and to help her ground herself, she offers her her steady presence, gently setting her hand on Sansa’s.

“I…” The gesture startles her, is unexpected, but Sansa finds it is not entirely unwelcome. Margaery’s hand is warm, comforting, soothing even as her thumb rubs little circles into her skin, and she likes it very much. “How do I come back from this? How do I go out with my family for a meal and not feel the urge to throw up as soon as we get home, I mean? I… I _want_ to be able to do that again, but I can’t really remember how.” She laments, eyes locked on their hands, unable to look the other woman in the eyes.

It’s embarrassing really, and Sansa feels her cheeks flush as she admits it. Two year-old children who can’t handle a knife and fork act like this, it is unbecoming of a fully grown adult such as herself – _If she could see me right now, Mother would probably be ashamed of me._ The thing is, she doesn’t even really understand _why_ this is so difficult: her father has rescued her out of from Cersei’s clutches and brought her back home, to the safety of the pack, Mother and the others have been understanding (even Arya, and her little’s sister’s compassion had touched her). She still finds it difficult, at times, remembering that she no longer has to abide by the fifty paged code of conduct she signed when Lannister hired her when she looks at her wardrobe or when her mother brings her along for grocery shopping, by all accounts, Sansa is _free_ … So why is reclaiming her own body is so damned _difficult?_

“I just… _I don’t understand.”_ She sighs, an intricate combination of pent up exhaustion and frustration lacing her voice, and Margaery can only smile in sympathy as she rises from her chair. Slowly, she manoeuvres herself around her desk and, gently, her hand hovers over Sansa’s shoulder. Margaery is careful, looks into her eyes and silently waits for the other girl to give her consent before letting it touch it –and Sansa may just lean into the touch, but she’s not entirely sure- as she invites the other to follow her over to the little sofa she has beside the bookshelf, where she keeps an impressive collection of works on a vast array of topics published by renowned scientific communities around the world. Margaery doesn’t want the brown wooden desk to be a physical barrier for them as they talk.

She sits down on the couch, but does not force Sansa to, merely gives her space and lets her come to her in her own time. The redhead joins her after a cursory glance at the couch, falls into the soft embrace of the cushions and instantly leans into her, as if missing the warmth of her touch. Margaery won’t outright say that is the case -it is merely a scientific hypothesis- but she has to admit that it is rather _nice,_ feeling wanted like this. From where Stark is, she looks up at her, knows Sansa is at a complete loss as to what to do with herself and that the lack of direction must be terrifying for someone who has lived by strict rules for the past few years. Margaery can’t say she’s ever been in her place, she can merely speculate, but is pretty sure this _can’t_ be easy for Sansa, and thinks that first things first, she ought to be reassuring in all of this.

“It’s okay,” She says, giving an answer to her previous question. “It’s perfectly okay to feel a little disoriented right now.” And she swears Sansa must sigh in relief at being told she is not the abnormal monster she believes she is. _She’s not, she is the most fascinating person she has ever met,_ and Margaery would have gladly told her so if it weren’t for the fact that it was ill suited to their predicament. Sansa absolutely does _not_ need to be dealing with Margaery’s feelings for her when she’s still trying to process her own. “That’s why we’re here, to try and get you back up on your feet, to help you get better, hm?”

That seems to calm her down, as they both stay there, Sansa’s head on her shoulder and Margaery’s hand having somehow found it’s way into the mane of red hair, carding her fingers through the long silky strands, a repetitive movement that seems to calm the other girl. Slowly, ever so slowly, she can feel the tension leave her shoulders as Sansa’s breathing evens out, the panic that had fully encompassed her fading away under her soothing ministrations. And it is in that moment, as she looks down at her, actually _sees_ Sansa and all of her little imperfections fully bared to her as the dire state she is in fully manifests itself to them both, that she does not think she could ever be more infatuated with her.

_Damn that crush. Damn it to Hell and back._

A fragile thing, a fine marble sculpture in the care of her hands, Margaery then realises the depth of her care for the other girl and acknowledges that, yes, her feelings towards her _may_ just go beyond what is professionally acceptable. And what of it? The heart had it’s reasons of which her reason knew nothing. And Sansa needn’t ever know either, this crush-business would not hurt her – _she_ would never hurt her.

“So, is there anything you would like to talk about today?” She asks after a while, not particularly wanting to break the comfortable silence, but knows she’s being paid to work, and not just sit here and do nothing.

Sansa could say she would like to talk about water lilies and Monet –truth is, she _wants_ to- but she also wishes to please Margaery, it’s the least he can do when the other woman has been so kind to her, and although she knows it will be difficult, Sansa actually wants to _try_. Her father was paying good money to help her heal, money she knows the family needs, so as much as she would like to remain seated here, content, Sansa has to make the most of her parents’ helping hand.

“The… The cake-biscuit- _thing_.” She says, or rather blurts out.

Margaery can feel her eyes widen just a little in surprise as Sansa tries to find the adequate words, unsure as to whether she ought to stop her or let her continue. She has just gotten upset over a few biscuits, is it really wise to keep going down that path? She understands that Sansa may wish to tackle the issue at hand, but maybe-

“Underneath the taste and the texture and the whole silly mess I made out of it… It made me remember something. Like a Proust-kind of thing, I think?” And damn it, but Sansa’s confused grimace is cute, Margaery has to admit.

“Proust? As in _Marcel_ Proust? The writer?” She unfortunately does not have a literary degree, and is even less of a bookworm, but she thanks her mother’s insistence in educating her and her brother and not having them be _uncultured swine,_ as she would like to say, to not be completely clueless when it comes to literature. She has not had the leisure of reading Proust, knows him by name and reputation only, but he does cut quite the impressive figure, no wonder someone as sensitive as Sansa would take after him.

Sansa nods, “I studied him once, I think, before entering the UCL in London. In one of his books, he actually manages to word what kind of happened to me when I bit into the biscuit.” _A lot better than I could ever hope to do, at any rate._ She remembers how, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, she would hide away in her bedroom and read and read and read as she huddled under a blanket, the words under her eyes resonating with an intimate life experience of hers. He _got_ it, had somehow managed to find the exact words to describe what eating –or merely smelling- one of those biscuits did to her, how catching a whiff of it from the kitchen would bring her back to years ago, in Aunt Lysa’s kitchen, when she was still in primary school and looked at the world in rose-tinted glasses. “It’s pretty amazing, how someone you don’t even know can connect with such an intimate part of you, with nothing but a few well-chosen words or the masterful stroke of a paintbrush.”  

Granted, Margaery has never really read Proust, but she gets the feeling Sansa is trying to articulate. She may have experienced it once or twice, when Loras brought her to a photography exhibition he’d really wanted to attend –Robert Capa? Or perhaps it was Robert Doisneau… Truth is, it is so long ago now that she can’t really remember- and one of the pictures had had such a striking resemblance to her childhood, had conjured such a vivid memory of hers that she had been completely overwhelmed by the experience. She is also keenly aware how Proust may perhaps be somewhat of a comforting figure to Sansa, trapped in a sickly and weak body like her own right now, but who managed to overcome it through his master of artful writing and his limitless imagination.

“Sometimes, it’s the weak, fragile and seemingly insignificant who shine the brightest,” She says, unsure as to what exactly she’s referring to, “The most sensitive among us are those who truly seize the beauty of the mundane though, I think. I know _I_ probably wouldn’t be able to see anything remotely deep in a few crumbs even if it were explained to me.” She laughs, feeling kind of stupid because what even _is_ she talking about exactly?

Sansa would, though. She’s pretty certain the other girl could write her a three-page essay in elegant handwriting with ease, and Margaery would be suspended at each of her words were she to read it.

Sansa, for her part, would very much like to counter that, feels a little sad that Margaery would be so depreciating towards herself when she’s pretty sure that she is the most amazing person that she has ever met in her life, and it is not an overstatement. Not many people would dare to be so outwardly kind, or not look at her like she was some broken toy doomed to be sick for the rest of her life, or show patience when things didn’t progress as quickly as she would have liked, or actually do a little research on the impressionists to be able to share a conversation with Sansa when they next met –Sansa had been touched, that she had gone to all that trouble just so they could _talk_. Margaery may not have realized it, and Sansa doesn’t feel like she can tell her – _she’ll probably think me stupid_ \- but the other woman actually going to the bother of doing all this to accommodate her hasn’t gone unnoticed. And even if it is for the show and it turns out that Margaery is faking it all, Sansa is still grateful to her.

A beacon of light at the end of a long dark tunnel. Kind, attentive, waiting for her to join her at her own pace and never pushing, Margaery’s entire demeanour when she is with her is absolutely fascinating to Sansa, who has admittedly thought about it _quite a lot_ when at home. In fact, she has thought of Margaery quite a bit outside of their sessions. She knows it is inappropriate, but would very much like to invite her out to, perhaps, share a coffee or a hot chocolate at the local café sometime. There, they could maybe talk more freely than in the confines of their doctor-patient confidentiality, Margaery wouldn’t have to worry about a slip of the tongue and Sansa could treat her to a little something, as a thank you. And then she realizes how _stupid_ she is: Margaery is only being nice to her because it’s her _job_ , that’s what therapists _do,_ so she’d probably see Sansa’s invitation to her as silly, and rightfully so.

Still, Sansa has been thinking about it a little, lately. Perhaps, if she had the guts, she might ask her someday in the future. In the meantime, she can always keep her pinning to herself and dream about it at night, in the comfort of her own bed, and smile into her pillow as she pictures the pair of them at a table, Nymeria at their feet under the table, the two of them sitting on opposite sides of it, Margaery’s hand on hers and Sansa leaning in to wipe off white foam from Margaery’s lips from the sweetest of hot chocolates, both of them chuckling at her clumsy fingers, her leaning in in the heat of it all and-

_Stop right there, Sansa._

She should probably lift her head from where it’s contentedly resting on Margaery’s shoulder, it would be the right thing to do, but Sansa just can’t find the energy to do so. Instead, she finds an excuse to keep the conversation going, because Margaery needs to know that she’s not the soulless beast she’s trying to sell herself as. “I think you’re selling yourself a little short.”

She is pretty sure that her heart skips a beat at Sansa’s kind words, and her hand gives the redhead’s shoulder a little squeeze. She doesn’t say anything, feels like she doesn’t need to, as a pleasant silence takes over the room. Margaery probably should be giving Sansa a run-of-the-mill session, psychoanalysis and medical jargon included, but is rather reluctant to after the exchange they have just shared. Truth is, she is even more loathe to part with such a sweet embrace, and if Sansa doesn’t bring it up, then Margaery sure as Hell isn’t going to say anything.

They stay like that, a companionable quiet as the people outside go about their everyday life, car horns honking in the evening traffic, the muffled beat of an early party thrown no doubt by a bunch of teenagers and the occasional crow squawking in the distance. But what has Margaery transfixed is the sound of Sansa’s breathing, calm, posed and serene, leagues away from the panic of a half an hour ago. They’re gently rocking from left to right again, and she isn’t really sure when she started, but Sansa nuzzles her –at least, Margaery thinks that is what she did, unless her crush-induced-mind is playing tricks on her again- her forehead pressed in the crook of her neck, and Margaery really isn’t one to believe in fate or signs or magic mumbo-jumbo, but Sansa seems to fit right in there, and not to say it might be Fate but…

“You’re really nice, you know that?” Sansa mumbles after a while, she would have missed it if she weren’t as transfixed on the redhead beneath her. “I like you.”

Margaery isn’t too sure what she is getting at, is unsure whether this is something they ought to do or not, and decides that perhaps the best course of action is to shut it down, gently.

“You’re very nice too, I hope you know that. Perhaps we could have been sisters, you and I, in another life.” She muses, remembers how, when she had been a little girl not yet old enough to have interests such as psychology and medical jargon, each time her birthday came around, she would wish for a sister when she would blow out the candles. She loves Loras, she always has, Margaery reflects that she always would have loved to have a sister too, someone she could confide in, someone who would understand her when Loras could not.

“That would have been nice.” Sansa murmurs, breath soft on her shoulder, the calm aura of her cabinet lulling her into sweet slumber.

Margaey jostles her just slightly –nothing too brusque- as she feels their allotted hour come to a (too early, if she is to have an input) end. She does not utter a word, does not wish for their shared time together to finish on anything but the redhead’s warm words and expression of content. They have made good progress today, she thinks, and hopes, as she goes to the door and lets Eddard Stark in to give him a sketchy rundown, that Sansa will continue to progress on her own.

“I’m really glad to hear it.” He says, a huge smile on his face and pride shining in his eyes when he looks at his daughter, and while Sansa shies away from the appraisal, Margaery thinks she has earned it. True, she may not be healed yet, but she has made a considerable number of breakthroughs since they have started this, and she is glad that her father is so supportive.

“You’re very lucky, you know, to have such a nice family.” As Eddard waves the compliment off, saying all families are like that, Sansa acquiesces. Since being pulled from Cersei’s pay roll, she has become acutely aware of, on the one part, how her illness is taking a real toll on the others, and wishes for this to be all done and over with as quickly as possible to avoid usurping their time and compassion any further,  but on the other hand, Robb giving her shoulder a warm pat, Jon offering to accompany her when she brings Nymeria out for a walk in the evening and the two of them get to talk, or even Arya suggesting they play a game of chess together just so that Sansa isn’t too alone, Sansa doesn’t think any thank you she could give them could ever do justice to their meaningful gestures towards her.

“I know,” She says, “They’ve been very helpful, a lot more than I thought at the beginning.”

“We Starks like to stick together,” Eddard inputs, and Margaery had guessed so ever since she’d met him the first time in person. Family above everything seemed to be the Stark motto, and if anything, Margaery admires how, despite all the different paths they have all taken, they can truly manage to keep the family unit up and running. “And I’m sure we’ll pull through this, _together_.”

She admires his optimism, how it hasn’t strayed one bit since their initial meeting, where he had shown far more apprehension than he is now. The baker is far more relaxed in his seat, the smile he gives her is genuine, reaches his eyes, and his shoulders, while still strained from the workload he has been pulling through, bear none of that sickening tension when he’d been panicking, not knowing what was up with his daughter. Perhaps Sansa’s sessions with her were helping the other members of her family too? Margaery would not go so far as to take credit for it –she was no magic sculptor, nor was she a magician, she is just a therapist doing helping someone in need- but is glad she can help in what little way she can.

“I am very glad to hear it. I don’t know that I can offer you much more counselling, you seem to have everything well in hand.” She says, then thinks back to her and Sansa’s earlier exchange over the cake, “Just… Perhaps don’t push too much. Sansa has taken a big step today, but don’t get caught up in the euphoria of it all. It is better to take little steps at a time and build on that than take one too big and risk coming back to square one.” Eddard nods along, scribbling down on a notepad he has taken out of his pocket. Margaery doesn’t know why, but finds it quite amusing.

His hand is firm when they part, the etiquette handshake a formality between them, before it goes back to settle on his daughter’s shoulder as he sees them out, Margaery catching the fact that he is headed to Brienne’s desk to schedule another appointment. He asks her if next Wednesday at the same hour still suits her, and she has to double-take when she answers, Eddard Stark probably doesn’t know that she has already blocked off all of those for the next three months for Sansa “Of course, it’s always a pleasure Mister Stark.”

The pair of them disappear out the door and Margaery is suddenly at a loss. It’s just her, her books and her paperwork in the silent office, a workplace she has known for roughly seven years now, _so why does it feel so empty all of a sudden?_ She tries to work it out logically as she spots the left-over biscuits on the plate and, not wanting them to go soft overnight, is about to put them back in the plastic packaging overnight when there is a faint knock on her door.

As she looks up, it’s Sansa.

“Sansa? You can come in, no need to hang around at the door like that. Did you forget something? Your phone perhaps?”

Sansa probably hasn’t, she’s too organized to forget something as essential as her phone. But Margaery can’t really figure why she would come back. It is certainly not for another session, this one has been draining on her, and besides, she knows that their next scheduled one is next week, so why-

“I… I just wanted to thank you.” Sansa says, and before Margaery can even remotely prepare herself for it, Sansa lightly pecks her on the cheek, a fleeting motion that sends sparks flying, and reiterates her farewell, promising to come back next week.

Margaery just stands there, dumbstruck, her cheek tingling as she brings a hand up to it, lets it hover over the skin without touching. Perhaps she is afraid that, were she to do so, the ghost of Sansa’s touch would fade away into nothingness.

She can’t move her limbs, her brain seems frozen, momentarily.

Did Sansa –and it short circuits again, because apparently, she cannot function normally around her.

_Did Sansa just kiss her cheek?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Game of Thrones is now over, and, not going to lie, I may have just shed a tear when Sansa was crowned Queen in the North. It's what she deserved, I'm so happy for her :,)  
> (And let's just imagine that, from where she is in the afterlife, Margaery is super proud of her gf :))
> 
> Also, the saying "The heart has its reasons of which her reason knew nothing" is by French mathematician Blaise Pascal, I own nothin ^.^


	6. VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing isn't easy, but Sansa thinks she may be getting there. But with healing comes another problem Margaery isn't sure she wishes to acknowledge just yet.

It’s not easy.

It’s not easy on her, it’s not easy on Margaery and it’s certainly not easy on her family - at this point, Sansa has lost count of the number of rows and tearful apologies she has had with her mother – and she oft times wishes all this could be over with already and go away for good. They make up, of course, with a late tea in front of the TV, Nymeria sprawled on their knees, unabashedly seeking pets from her mother’s gentle hand, and it kind of makes it all better. But those moments of peace and calm seem to be increasingly few and far between, and Sansa has begun to wonder if the sparsely scattered good times really make this agonizing road to recovery truly worth it.

She _knows_ now that her father had only had good intentions when bringing to Margaery’s office, regrets resenting him for so long after being forced to break her self-destructive habits. She _knows_ she cannot continue down that path or she will essentially be signing her own death warrant –and Sansa doesn’t really want that, she wants to live, because there are so many beautiful things out there to live for- but it is becoming gradually apparent to her that the knowledge of what is hiding around the corner if she relapses doesn’t help much.

Sometimes, she manages to get through the day with remarkably little difficulty, occasionally even helping her mother chop the carrots for the evening dinner or roll out the pastry for a raspberry tart. It is perhaps not much, but Sansa feels it like an accomplishment –perhaps she doesn’t eat much of the cake once it’s cooked, but being around the ingredients as she makes it re-accustoms her to a sense of what should be normal- and her brother’s bright smile as he comes home to the surprise makes it all worth it, he thinks. She goes to sleep that night, stomach full, and dreams of a pleasant time shared with the whole family.

Those are the good days, which Sansa –dare she say it- feels are perhaps a little more reoccurring than during the past year.

 It is quite thrilling, at first –Sansa is positive she feels shivers of excitement run down her spine  the first time it registers that she actually likes the lemon cake her father brings back from the bakery one evening. That is until the incessant guilt she thinks she had been gradually managed to distance herself from comes back in full force. Shame, bile and sickness hit her once again, completely unannounced, a hurdle she thinks she ought to have expected, but had elected to ignore until then because things had been going so well. Sansa knows she shouldn’t be feeling like this, naively wants to believe her father when he’d initially told her that seeing Margaery would help her free herself of this. And it has, Sansa cannot express how grateful she is to the other woman (and does not think she could ask more of her), it’s just that… Well this is nothing like what she expected her recovery to look like.

Somewhere, she knows that what she has had the leisure of watching on TV or read in a few sappy romance novels written by second-grade con artists is probably as far removed from reality as one could get. Yet, they have been a small comfort in this terrifying journey to recovery she has now fully embarked on, give her a little hope that there _will_ come a day when she will be well again.

A month and a half have gone by since she told Margaery she wanted to get on the right path again. They meet regularly, usually around once a week (twice if Sansa is lucky), and their conversations do help (I they leave Sansa with a pounding heart, a tingle on her skin where Margaery has touched her hand and an embarrassing blush on her face once their hour is up, the therapist has yet to comment on it), but she is slowly realizing that there is far more to this undertaking than easy-talking.

Margaery is kind, patient and soft-spoken, during their time together, she lulls Sansa into believing that everything is well in the world, and that she will merely have to wake up tomorrow and her affliction will be naught but a distant dream. Yet, it is anything but. This is not one smooth brushstroke laying a new coat of paint over a used canvas, covered in a messy patchwork of mismatched colours, promise of a new unblemished start. Her life has swivelled into a sloppy imitation of a _Mondrian,_ disjointed moments of pride, frustration, victory, tears, happiness and pretty much every emotion the human body is capable of expressing all merging together, and Sansa cannot earnestly say that this is what she had been hoping for. She would much rather this tortuously long process look like a Michelangelo or a Raphael, an exercise in exemplary aesthetic artistry, complete with balance, pleasing aesthetics and _actually_ representative of something meaningful.

For while she knows, somewhere, that this is the right thing to do (and this is very much despite some rather persistent poisonous voices in her head trying desperately to convince her of the contrary), Sansa has yet to _see_ the fruits of her labour, and does not see much of a change in herself when she looks in the mirror. To add to her frustration, Sansa is not even quite sure what she ought to be making of that: on the one hand, when she takes the time to actually observe her reflection in the mirror –lets her hand linger on the cool surface after wiping the accumulated steam away- she still sees the model proportions Cersei – no, she hastily amends, herself. She cannot continue to solely lay the blame on Cersei Lannister for her current condition. The woman may have set the rules, but Sansa is the one who followed them- helped create, and when Sansa thinks back to some of the more exquisite items of fashion her former employer had her try on, from satin blush nightgowns to luxurious cotton shirts embroidered with carefully hand-sewn motifs, she is, at times, not quite certain that she is ready to give all that up yet. She hasn’t stepped a foot in the Lannister INC studios in over nearly two months, all of Cersei’s emails have remained unopened and her phone calls unanswered (she has since stopped, probably found somebody else to replace her).

Sansa thinks that, at this point, it is very unlikely the woman will willingly take her back were she to return to her now. In a sense, she is free, and yet she cannot bring herself to savour this newfound power.

The bitterness and guilt, constant companions of hers over the past year, while no longer there, have yet to be replaced with anything remotely gratifying. The endless running to fit into the Chinese jeans for the Christmas campaign Cersei Lannister only wanted her has vanished from one day to the next, the return to what her parents call a _normal_ life unbalancing everything she feels she has ever known. Sansa has to admit that it still feels surreal, at times, finds it hard to accept her father pulling her out from Cersei’s clutches when life without numbers and weight and sizes and tight-fitted shirts, structured schedules, meal plans and perfectly ordered days (an hour running in the morning, a mug of hot chocolate or tea and perhaps the occasional slice of toast, bright flashes of an expensive camera burning her eyes until lunchtime where she would content herself with reading a book –Shakespeare, Wilde, or maybe Wordsworth, a repeat of the same thing in the afternoon, more running once she would come home, avoid dinner, take a shower and repeat it all day in-day out), it all abruptly goes up into smoke from one day to the next, Sansa not really knowing what to do with herself now.

Then guilt gnaws at her stomach for even bearing the slightest hint of a grudge towards him, Margaery and everyone else who has been by her side on her journey to recovery. She cannot possibly resent them when they all have saved her life – _this is severe, Sansa, had it gone on any longer, you could have died,_ Father said once, voice wavering as the two of them shared a warm mug of tea late into the night, and perhaps that is when it truly hit her. Sansa doesn’t want to die, doesn’t wish to cause her family unnecessary pain and grief.

She is also acutely aware that had it not been for her father’s stubbornness, she may not even have met Margaery in the first place. Margaery who has saved her too, who doesn’t ever judge, doesn’t look her like broken glass like the rest of her family does –their pitying stares at times to much to bare- is always kind, patient and incredibly sweet towards her, whose touch is soft on her wrist, who makes her smile at little nothings, who is sensitive towards her, makes her feel like she is worth something and the warmth of whose hugs she takes all the way home into her cosy bed.

At first, Sansa tries staying away, locks herself in her room, unwilling to burden her family any more than she already has. She wishes to nestle away in her cocoon, come out just in time to spread her delicate butterfly wings to them, give them back the radiant daughter they long to see come back. Only it doesn’t really happen like that. Change, she learns to her dismay, is tortuously slow to come about. And, to make matters worse, Sansa doesn’t know exactly how she ought to feel about it. On the one hand, when she catches a glance of herself in the bathroom mirror –passes a hand over the cool surface, wipes away the steam accumulated there- all she can see are the model proportions Cersei _(no,_ she amends, _she herself,_ Sansa knows she cannot keep blaming the other woman. Cersei Lannister might have helped create the issue, but ultimately, Sansa is the one who is the artist if this morbid creation) helped bring about, all she can do is think back to some of the most exquisite pieces of fashion the other woman has made this body try on. From the luxurious cashmeres straight from India to the most recognized brand names of Paris, the vibrant colours of Morocco to the more  subdued tones of Argentina, the patterns from China to the designs from that one fashion house in Tanzania, Sansa isn’t quite sure she is ready to give this intercultural voyage up. She hasn’t gone near the Lannister Inc building in over two months, Cersei’s insistent emails have all either gone straight to the recycling bin or remained unanswered, her phone calls unreturned, so it is quite probable that, if she is to contact the other woman now she probably won’t take her back, but this has been such a norm, such a constant in her life, that Sansa finds herself floundering without it. Stripped of it all, who is she to be now?

On the other hand, things are beginning to, perhaps, feel a little less dire nowadays.

While accepting that she no longer looks like skin-on-bones and that the numbers on the old scales in the bathroom are bound to be higher than what they have been in the past is no easy feat, Sansa finds that overcoming her aversion to it is not a thing she necessarily needs to do alone. Father, mother, her brothers, even Arya are there every step of the way, and her gratitude for their support is not something she thinks she can ever really put into words. Jon gently putting his arm around her shoulder as he passes her the last Twix, as they are all settling into a movie one Friday night or Arya patiently waiting for her to finish an ice cream as the two of them spend some time together in town one weekend, Bran and Rickon having a bowl of chocolate cereal and milk ready for her one morning and Robb offering her an éclair from the bakery that same evening, they are all tiny gestures, probably insignificant to a stranger, but Sansa feels like they help get her accustomed to what it is to be normal again. Perhaps it is the fact that it comes from her family, or that there is genuine care behind their offerings, but the guilt lessens after a while, when Sansa can feel herself be happy by making them happy by eating their kind tidings.

It gets a little easier after a while, with her family there. And Sansa is thrilled to see that, along with getting accustomed to eating an average portion again comes a much more pleasant home life with it. She no longer feels like needing to hide in her room from them, doesn’t have to pretext needing the toilet as they stop in a café one Saturday afternoon and come out only when her mother is paying the bill, doesn’t need to upset Bran’ when he heartily offers her home-made cookies out of fear of Cersei and when she, her father and Arya indulge in a take-away fish and chips one afternoon, on their way home from walking Nymeria, it is only once they get home that she realizes that she didn’t panic, sweat of feel like heaving when the food had actually felt _good_ in her mouth.

It may not always be as good as that, but Sansa is proud to say that she has begun to enjoy things that would have been unthinkable to enjoy only a few months ago, thinks she starts to realize what exactly she has been missing out on all of this time. It isn’t even the food, per se, but rather the moments she shares with the others that go with it that makes it all worth it in the end. Jon’s laugh when he tricks her into biting into what she thinks is a nice bowl of pasta only to find out it’s celery, Rickon and Bran’s excitement when she helps them ice the biscuits they are making with Mother, and indulges in one at their request, accepting the Kinder bar Arya offers her on the bus home from town… It’s nothing much, perhaps, but it’s meaningful, and Sansa is glad she is in a place where she longer causes them pain. Perhaps it has yet to become a norm, per se, to indulge in a similar portion of her mother’s wonderful Bolognese as, say, Jon, but she feels like she’s getting there, step by little step.

She is incredibly lucky to have them all, them and Margaery, every step of the way. Aside from her family’s endless optimism, her therapist’s incessant encouragements and the kindness and patience she has shown towards her, they are all helping her get her life back together.

She still goes out running, a habit she does not think she will ever truly break free of, but it feels different now. It’s not to lose weight, or avoid dinner, just something she does to feel good, to keep in shape. To _be healthy,_ a concept she is slowly managing to separate from _being sick._ To her delight, even Father and Nymeria come along at times, usually on a Saturday morning, so much so that it has become their little ritual. It is an hour they chip out of each week for the two of them, an hour in which they can talk, try and mend the distance her time with Cersei has put between them, and one of the first things Sansa is sure to tell him is a big _thank you_ for finding Margaery, and insisting she visit the therapist.

Far from being an obligation after every meal like it may have been a few months ago, running is no longer a punishment she feels she must inflict on herself for daring to have an extra shortbread with Arya on the way home from the park or a crisp sandwich with Jon in front of the evening football match. It’s a slow process, putting herself back together, but Sansa is glad to have these few weeks to find herself, or, beyond that even, _rediscover_ herself. It’s not that she is ignoring what she has done –quite the contrary, she takes Margaery’s advice on board, that the hurt she has inflicted upon herself may not define her, but help reshape her- it is a part of who she is today, has made her become someone _other_ than who she was when signing Cersei Lannister’s contract yet not entrapped her in that one box either. Healing is a choice she has made, and as Sansa is slowly navigating her life of newfound freedom, she doesn’t really want her sickness to rule her future.

Perhaps she deserves better than that.

Perhaps she also deserves the hot croissant Robb sometimes has set on a plate next to Jon’s perfect hot chocolate when she gets back. It’s nice actually, being with the whole family together at the table –they talk, laugh, learn to reconnect with one another, learn to be a family again. Breakfasts have become pleasant moments, instead of something she avoids with dread coiling in her stomach, a newfound feeling Sansa also owes entirely to their patience and support, and Margaery opening her eyes to her destructive habits.

It has taken a long time, and as Sansa watches Rickon and Bran argue over the chocolate spread for their slices of toast, her mother trying in vain to settle her rambunctious brothers, she is grateful that she is slowly learning to reconnect with this. It is not easy, at first, their looks of pity –even Arya, dare she say it- during the first dinners she shares with them are no easy feat to bare, Sansa agonizingly making her way through the chicken broth under the heavy and expectative weight of their states. It’s like being a wild animal in a zoo, a specimen to observe, makes her skin crawl, and she usually tries escapes as quickly as possible to the sanctuary of her room, deaf to her family’s worries as she runs away from them.

Other times, she finds solace at the local museum. Her family tries to understand her infatuation with painters, but unfortunately doesn’t manage to quite grasp it. Robb accompanies her, once, to an exhibition, probably out of kindness than a real interest in the symbolist movement. He doesn’t really get it, though, Sansa can see it in his eyes: to him they are but meaningless canvases, the expressions, the colours, the brushstrokes mean nothing to him, and that’s completely fine, Sansa knows not everybody can share her interest and that is okay. She is already beyond happy to just spend some time with her brother, knows he is giving up his spare time to do something _she_ likes. Sansa jut thinks that she would rather spare him next time, and ponders on whether or not Margaery would come to something like this. She would like to invite her, is pretty certain they would find something to talk about, Sansa would maybe even hold her hand for support, but is not quite sure that such an invitation would be ethical, so she opts not to.

Despite her troublesome crush on the other woman, Margaery remains, after all, nothing more than her therapist. Someday soon, she will tell her that she has fixed her as much as she can, that Sansa is free to go and live her life, that there is no more useful advice she can give her. While she is dreading that moment, secretly wishes she could just put the inevitable off, she knows already that she will miss the way her warm brown eyes crinkle when she smiles, or the way she catches up her hair when as she hurriedly turns to tidy her paperwork, how she chuckles lightly –never laughs, she is always controlled- when Sansa tells her how Nymeria knocked the shortbread out of Arya’s hand when she and her sister came home that weekend, the huge dog pouncing on her sibling before they’d even closed the door behind them.

She also is acutely aware of how her hand sometimes rests innocuously on her wrist when they talk Klimt, _Pride and Prejudice_ or merely about the lovely bouquet of pink roses her grandmother had specially delivered to her, as a means to celebrate her fourth successful year as an accomplished therapist. They are always there, Sansa notices, and also takes note of the minute ministrations Margaery gives to the plants when she offers for them to tend to them together during their sessions. Her right hand delicately hold the glass jug of water while she parts the petals out of the way so as to avoid damaging them, and the look of pure unaltered love she gives those flowers (and if Sansa is to look for some deeper meaning, probably her grandmother’s gesture) is one she may just be a little jealous of: how she, too, would love to be looked upon with such tenderness, receive the warmth of the gaze of a woman straight out of a Vermeer painting. Sansa feels her heart race just thinking about it, and resorts to help herself to one of the lemon cakes on Margaery’s desk when the need to think of something else urgently arises.

It is true that she has more time to pay attention to what may seem to be trivial details to anyone else. Given that, when she comes to her therapist’s office, they no longer solely focus on her disorders anymore, Margaery usually only spending the first fifteen minutes of their time together talking about her progress and noting down a lot of no doubt complicated medical and psychoanalytic jargon in her notebook, while (more often than not these days, to Sansa’s delight), indulging in pleasantries and talk of art, flowers and paintings instead. It does feel quite liberating, having a place where Sansa knows she can talk so freely, unafraid or judgment or causing Margaery any disinterest. Her therapist allows her to set the pace, lets her take her time to stop, offers her a (literal) hand to lean on if she finds herself struggling, gives her space to breathe, lets her change topic if ever the need arises, and if Sansa takes those few moments to come up with another topic to lose herself in the other woman’s warm blue eyes, well she doesn’t really have to know that, does she?

Sansa isn’t quite sure when this turned into a full-blown crush on Margaery, a complete package with the blushing, the butterflies in the pits of her stomach and the occasional embarrassing stutter when the other woman smiles at her, but here they are. Margaery has, quite unexpectedly, become someone very special to her, someone she doesn’t wish to disappoint, someone she actually would really like to heal for (and Arya, mother, father and the others too, of course, but Margaery has somehow managed to make herself a special place in her heart, it’s different that with the others). She would like to ask her out sometime, maybe grab a hot chocolate or a croissant at her father’s pace (surely he wouldn’t mind them popping into his bakery for an hour or two), but as quickly as these whimsical desires bloom in her chest, they die on her lips, as Sansa finds herself unable to utter the words she needs to when the other girl gives her a gentle smile.

Then again, Sansa isn’t really surprised, anyone would probably be at a loss for words when looking at her: a perfect profile that, in another life, might have been carved by Michelangelo’s himself, enlivened with features straight out of a Raphael painting, and a cascade of wavy hair that looks far more like an other-worldly wizard had given life to a Boticelli masterpiece than something possible in their imperfect reality. All in all, Margaery is an amalgamation of Renaissance perfection, one she cannot bring herself to soil and unbalance with her flawed and sickly touch.

But what really sets Margaery apart, she thinks, is the endless bounds of benevolent kindness she can actually see radiate in her smile, a kindness that helped her reconnect with a feeling of security, a sense of belonging. It is a shining star she can look to for guidance when emotions become to overwhelming for her, when unburdening herself to the other woman seems all of a sudden to be a gargantuan task she cannot fathom to undertake. It is quite unlike anything Sansa has felt before, the novelty sending her heart beating wildly when she feels their conversations starting to navigate the seas of the unknown, but where a few months ago she probably would have been terrified, asked Margaery to put an end to their talk and then profusely apologize to her, she now finds the raw secrets they share to be a thrilling odyssey, and adventure they face together, Margaery ever her knight in shining armour, ready to protect her from the sometimes harsh unpredictability’s scattered along her healing journey.

Healing is not easy, but with Margaery at her side, Sansa may not be as averse to is as she may have been not so long ago.

“So, how did this week go for you?” It has become somewhat of a ritual at this point, Margaery makes sure to open their formal talk with a same question. She knows it can be reassuring for her patients, to have prior knowledge of some of the things they would be facing, and if there is one thing she has taken away from her studies in university, it’s that leaving a convalescent alone to flounder in the unknown turns out to be rather unproductive in their healing process. She also has gotten to know Sansa quite extensively, by now, both on a professional level and –to her delight- on a more personal one, she does not particularly wish to see all of their bonding go to waste.

Sansa takes a moment. She really does not want to disappoint Margaery, she knows how much the other woman is putting into this –patience, time, and probably a lot of research at home too, which she will forever be grateful for- and is loath to give her a setback, but she has quickly garnedred that, for her to get better, honesty is key. She also does not wish to hide anything from her, but that is a more personal note, that she is not quite ready to grapple with yet.

“It wasn’t easy”, She sighs out, eventually, but feels her chest lighten somewhat as she shared her burden. Her heart just about begins to slow down a little until it stops in her chest, an electric touch in her hand jolting it quite suddenly as, without any warning, Margaery gently puts her hand on hers. Sansa tries not to let it show, thinks she is probably overreacting –especially since Margaery doesn’t do anything further beyond giving her a reassuring squeeze- but after taking a moment to recompose herself, she is quite grateful for the lifeline, as she goes on to list her accomplishments, “I had breakfast with Arya on Tuesday, I think, a slice of toast and butter. She had three. Then on Friay, we went out for fish and chips, and… I don’t know how to really say it, but I guess I didn’t feel guilty?”

Sansa is fairly certain that there is an awful grimace on her face, like when her mother uses the flash on the camera, but Margaery doesn’t say anything beyond nodding supportively, maybe adds a _“go on”,_ she isn’t sure. It’s nice, though, being able to talk to her about her progress –Cersei, while offering her an abundant amount of encouragements and trying to be supportive for other things, would probably never have done this.

Speaking of food, it is then that Sansa remembers her gift for Margaery, leans over and peers in her bag only to be disappointed: the box of chocolates must have remained on the bar at home, she can only hope nobody will touch them while she is out of the house and makes a note to bring them next time. It isn’t much, but she hopes they might convey to Margaery how grateful she is.

“That’s great, Sansa!” Margaery doesn’t even have to hide her enthusiasm, she’s really happy for the other girl: after months of angst, worry and pain, Sansa deserves to be able to enjoy something as small as a meal out with her family. She also notices how more colour seems to have come back to her face, Sansa’s cheeks adoring a healthy rosy blush. Of course, they may have a bit to go yet for things to be truly in line, but actually getting to _see_ her get better and feel better in herself, Margaery cannot really think of a better gift.

She also wishes to focus on Sansa’s accomplishments, help the other girl see that there is nothing to be guilty about with taking a step in the right direction, and, perhaps on a more selfish note, Margaery would like to see more of her brilliant smile too. “So, tell me all about it,” She asks in a low secretive voice, a silent promise that anything said here would be kept henceforth between the two of them only.

“It felt… Nice? At least, I think it did? It reminded me of how, when we were kids, we would sometimes go to the seaside with my aunt, Lysa, when she would take us on holidays. She would always tell us not to run after the seagulls, especially after they messed up Arya’s hair one time”, Sansa laughs gently at the memory, her sister’s unruly face not something she would forget anytime soon, “At the end of the day, mum and dad would sometimes come up for dinner, we would all share fish and chips together. The ones at the seaside were always the best because we were so cold, and the chipper always offered vinegar. Jon hated it, he would always pull a face at Robb and I would usually swipe a chip of two from him when he wasn’t looking.”

“Did you ever tell him about it?” Margaery can’t say she has experienced the same, her upbringing with Loras in a more privileged sphere than Sansa’s and her siblings not really accepting of such kind of behaviour, and perhaps one in a while she mourns the childhood she could have had. She is envious of Sansa, at times, at how close-knit her family is, how caring her father had been when she’d met him that first time: in no way is she resentful to her own parents, she simply does not have memories of them being so emotionally close to her as Sansa’s is. Perhaps it is one of the reasons behind her drastic improvement, a strong support system is essential, and she is pretty certain that when she will have to let her go, watch her fly away, Sansa will be in good hands.

The unbidden warning that this would all be over soon, that she shouldn’t be this involved with this one patient, arise again, and Margaery knows she should pay heed to it, but as she look at Sansa again, blesses whatever gods may have desired to bring her here, she selfishly does not want to let her go just yet. She does not want to lie to her, give her a false reason to come back, make her believe there is something wrong with her when there isn’t –that is a line she would never cross, not even to indulge in her own wants- but Margaery’s heart clenches in apprehension more often than not these days at the thought of saying goodbye.

Perhaps that is why she doesn’t really think twice as her hand squeezes Sansa’s, and it is only when she pulls back, startled, that the depth of unprofessionalism truly hits Margaery. Oh no, what have I done?

“Sansa,” She races to apologize, “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m so out of line here, I’m really-“ It is quite unlike Margaery to have no words when her job consists of having the right words to ease her patients questions and fears, but here she is, embarrassing herself and her profession as she tries to convey her deepest and most sincere apology to the auburn-haired girl.

“Hey”, Sansa is quite at a loss for a minute, never having seen Margaery in such a state. It takes her a moment to gather her spirits, and when her therapist looks to be to lost to come out of it herself, she guesses it is up to her to let her know “It’s okay.” It is quite unusual, this reversal of positions, but Sansa is glad she can give back a little of the comforting support she has been generously offered.

“Margaery, it’s really okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.” She insists, hesitating a moment before letting her hands gently fold over Margaery’s, in part to stop her figeting, but perhaps also because Sansa finds it comforting.

Margaery looks up at her then, and Sansa has to double take, because _Christ has she got a crush._ “It’s all right”, She says, as she looks down, unable to meet her soft gaze as she admits that “I kind of liked it.” She is pretty sure that, were it not the case before, her cheeks are definitely red now.

“Really, it’s okay?” Margaery repeats, wanting to make sure she hasn’t misheard –this is too good to be true-, and also because she thinks that Sansa ought to be the one setting boundaries here.

If she had deemed her hand graze ostentatious, then Margaery is really in for a treat when Sansa takes all of two seconds to let her know that touching her is okay, by full-on laying her head on her shoulder, her auburn hair a thin blanket between their skin, that does very little to dull the tingles in Margaery’s arm. _Oh god, she’s actually laying on me, she’s actually laying on me!_ I must be the luckiest girl alive. She thinks, blessing her mother, whatever four-leafed clovers may be dotted around in her garden and whoever may have done a sacrifice to the gods of good fortune in her name.

“This is nice,” Sansa says, voice subdued, the intimacy of the moment rendering her unable to speak louder than a whisper.

“Yeah,” Margaery finds herself answering in a breath, I could stay here forever.

“Thank you, you know”, Sansa says after a while, not particularly wanting to break the silence, but feeling the urge to say so all the same, “For all of this, I think I’m finally on the right track, like I’m getting back to normal again. And, really, I don’t think that I would have been able to- ” She stops, suddenly, unsure if it is because she feels to drained to continue or because she doesn’t not really know who she intended to finish her phrase.

Margaery gets it, though, as one hand comes up to her shoulder and gently rubs up and down along the fabric of her shirt.

She notices that, one again, it has a water lily pattern.

“Can we, you know, stay like this?” Sansa asks timidly, knowing that this is absolutely not what a normal therapist would do, but with Margaery, things are a little different. She wouldn’t give up their current position for the world, but if she is uncomfortable, then perhaps Sansa could amend to that. “Only if you want to, of course.”

It doesn’t even take a second for Margaery to reply.

“I would love to.”

And, just like that, they lean on each other in a companionable silence, Sansa’s even breathing in her ear as Margaery looks at the Klimt painting on her wall. She feels light, unburdened, as if a gently gust of breeze had swiped all of her worries away momentarily, only to be left with the one she cannot seem to find an answer to.

That she does not wish to say goodbye to Sansa so soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have officially graduated university, may be heading to Geneva in the upcoming week and crossing the whole of France to come back home the week after that. Next chapter will hopefully posted sometime soon though, thank you so much for being so patient! :)


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